


Bilbo

by Yidenia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotions, Friendship, Gen, Major Illness, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-08-31 23:52:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8598787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yidenia/pseuds/Yidenia
Summary: Transferred from ff net.John learns of a new obstacle, but fighting it might not be worth it.





	1. Prologue

It hit him suddenly, like the bullet to his shoulder. He had a chance to call out "Sarah!" before the rest of his energy was consumed by just breathing. The thud of his heart pounded in his ears, _buh buh buh_ , at least twice per second if not more, and he was gasping like a fish, an invisible vice around his chest, squeezing. Tachycardia, tachypnea, and angina.

Sarah rang for the ambulance while asking him all the questions John had already asked himself: _any radiation? Any diaphroesis?_ She felt along his forehead, but his skin was dry, and his left shoulder and arm were fine—not that it meant anything. She asked him other questions that she knew the answers to: any recent surgery, any existing medical problems; no, and no. No smoking, and John did not drink often. No drugs. No family history of heart attacks, at all. He was just sitting, logging his progress note in the chart when it started. Not likely a heart attack.

She echoed his thoughts. "Not likely an MI. Is it severe?"

Oh yes. He was willing to say that it hurt more than the bullets did, because at least he had the adrenaline, various tricks of his nervous system to make him notice less of the pain. Pain was, after all, a message from the body announcing that it had been hurt, and there were ways to muffle it, to silence it for a time. Now, whatever this was, his body was not shutting up.

_For crying out loud, stop._

Triage pushed him to the front of the list at the hospital, bypassing the normal five-hour wait in the ER. A nurse quickly checked his vitals: Temperature was 97.6 (normal), heart rate 136 (high), respiratory rate 31 (high), blood pressure 138/86 (normal), and oxygen saturation of 82% (low).

They put him on nasal cannula oxygen and ordered an EKG, which was normal, drew blood for his complete blood count and basic metabolic panel, which showed a bicarb of 30 (high). They did an echocardiogram, which showed nothing, and the attending, working on a hunch, wanted a CT-angiography, already starting the paperwork for his admission. He ordered an IV dose of heparin for anticoagulation, and by the time John was wheeled away from the CT rooms, he was already feeling better.

"But you run after Sherlock Holmes all the time," Sarah shook her head, "You haven't gone on any road trips, or flights, and you don't have any clotting disorders." She had already guessed what the attending was thinking, just as John did.

"It's a classic presentation though," John reminded her, "other than the no recent surgery or travel, or medical problem."

"But what else causes a pulmonary embolism?"

Sherlock arrived after John was already admitted, settling in with his heparin drip and a nurse establishing an arterial line in case of emergencies. In all the commotion, John had forgotten to text him, as did Sarah. How he figured out in the first place was a mystery, but John had long since learned not to question such things.

"I honestly thought Mycroft would be in this situation rather than you," he said without preamble.

Brusque and almost inconsiderate. John was use to worse, though, and at this point he could even make his own leaps further ahead of his flatmate. _Mycroft, fat, likely hypercholesterolemia; Sherlock thinks this is a heart attack._ "This has nothing to do with my diet or exercise."

"Of course not," Sherlock followed his lead, "you eat the same things I do and you're only three years older than me. So what is this, some kind of inherent propensity, lousy genetics, sudden fright?"

The oxygen released a loud puff, and John glared, feeling rather silly with the nasal cannula wrapped around his face. The air made his nostrils dry, and he really wished he could take it off without feeling short of breath.

"I'd think I would have been here sooner if it were a case of being _scared_ ," he rolled his eyes for good measure. "I'm not fucking eighty. The answer is: I don't know. We need more data. They're going to do an abdominal CT in a bit."

"What for? The problem is in your _chest_."

"Surely you must have realized by now that the human body is not divided into exclusive compartments," John returned dryly.

Sarah answered, "They're checking for malignancy, which could cause a pulmonary embolism—what he has. John's thrown a clot in his lungs."

"Waste of time and money," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Cancer would have caused weight loss, at the very least."

"Except when it doesn't," John replied, though he agreed.

"This is most inconvenient," Sherlock complained, "Lestrade just dropped off a case and you had to throw a clot in your lungs."

"I'm so very sorry that a clot mysteriously showed up in my lungs and kept me from helping Your Highness." Still, he was interested. "What's he got now?"

While Sarah excused herself to the bathroom, Sherlock started explaining the newest case.

* * *

The abdominal CT took about three hours because of the queue. British healthcare lagged whenever something was not an emergency, and screening for cancer was not urgent. John thought he would not receive the results until he was discharged, but the primary team came in the morning and told him of the impressions. The attending, Dr. Rose, who knew John was also a doctor, even printed out the image to display the white lesions climbing up near the stomach.

"This makes no sense," John shook his head as he stared at the findings. "Are you sure they didn't mix me up with someone else?"

He had no jaundice. He had no nausea or vomiting. Before his chest pain, he had been perfectly fine. No fevers or chills. No change in bowel movement. This was ridiculous.

"We can give them a call," said Rose, "but it fits the pulmonary embolism."

The team left John feeling stunned and dismayed.

Late in the morning, they wheeled him to the PET scan. Afterwards, Sherlock visited, but John did not tell him about the study; it would have clued him in. The detective ranted about the case again, and how absolutely unhelpful John was being—just like him to show how much he cared by being completely callous.

The PET scan was read quite quickly, faster than John expected. Later, after Sherlock left, the surgical attending popped by, hair like Sherlock's, but his face was rounder, like a doll's. He wore teal scrubs with a mask hanging around his neck and blue shoe covers over his sneakers. He also knew John was a doctor and surgeon once, and cut to the chase since he expected John to already know everything.

"It's at the head," he said to him, "but from the images it actually looks encapsulated, almost. You ever do one of those before?"

"I've done at least a hundred back when I was training," John managed not to snap. "I've done two of them back to back in one day!"

The surgeon winced. "Ooh. I would never schedule _that_. Anyway, you in?"

John looked at him, a fit man with firm, toned arms and towering high above where Sherlock would have been. Some Italian blood, from the looks of the skin, with fine long hands tipped with short fingernails. John was thrust back to when he had donned such scrubs, a cap over his head, looking at the MRI films, the boards with the OR schedule of the day, washing his hands and forearms, practicing knots, palpating abdomens for tenderness—so many patients, with puffy bellies tied together in stitches, lying there, helpless and miserable.

"Uh," he said to the surgeon, "let me think about it?"

And the surgeon knew where his mind went. "Sure. I'll write you in for Tuesday two weeks from now anyway, but you let me know what you decide."

* * *

Back when John was a medical student, there was one week when he had three patients die on his team's service. They were an inpatient medicine service, which meant long walking rounds and presentations consisting of everything from a patient's itch to the long list of differentials that were unlikely, and yet still must be mentioned. John had already fallen in love with surgery, the brisk, to-the-point rounds that consisted of "is the patient dying? No? Advance diet," and cutting things in the OR to the tune of the Beatles and dirty jokes between the surgeon and the nurse. He hated medicine and hated medicine rounds, because they were so long, loquacious, and _boring_.

But medicine was a basic field, and he learned a lot while on that clerkship, especially that week. His first patient was a 74-year-old male with stage IV chronic kidney disease on hemodialysis, intubated and demented. The problem was that the man had so much other shit going on, such as hepatitis and congestive heart failure and chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, that every time he went down to dialysis, the blood pressure drop would provoke cardiac arrest. He was full code, which meant they had to do all the resuscitation, until at one point they were at it for an hour and the doctor in charge finally called it.

Afterwards, while the family grieved, John heard the nurses and some of the attendings complain to each other about the "fucking morons, forcing him to go through this." The folks in dialysis were also furious, exclaiming "We _told_ the primaries that he's not fit for dialysis." John's attending had to sit with the family for a long time, explaining what had happened, and everyone was in a mood because if the man's family had just let him go, he could have died with less fuss and fewer cracked ribs.

That evening, his team admitted a 98-year-old woman with Alzheimer's with severe dehydration and a urinary tract infection. She was a "hummer", as they called it, wordlessly singing random melodies as she looked around the room without recognition. The cause of her dehydration was poor food intake, or more accurately, _no_ food intake, because the lady refused to eat because she was demented, and her children asked the doctors to place a peg tube—then a relatively new operation—once the infection cleared.

They had less data about these things back then, so the primary team consulted the surgeons, who followed through and placed a peg tube in her. Not too long after, the elderly woman started screaming incessantly, to the point where they had to sedate her with haloperidol. She began clawing at herself, and managed, with a surprising feat of strength, to rip the peg tube out of her stomach before they could place her in restraints.

That did not end well for her.

But as traumatic as that was for John, the worst case was the last one, 41-year-old male, 5'10" and 76 kilograms, pancreatic cancer, status post Whipple Procedure one year ago, with a giant jagged scar on his belly to prove it. Not that it did him any good, because it was detected again, this time in his liver, his spine, and three rock-hard palpable nodes right above his clavicles. He had six bowel obstructive episodes over the past year because of the surgery. They thought he was having another, but when John saw him, his belly protruded like he was 8 months pregnant, full of fluid, his skin was a bright, glowing gold, and his ankles were like clay, keeping the imprint of John's finger for a whole ten seconds. He was in so much pain, he could barely talk, and his wife and child could barely talk either.

They gave him a whopping load of dilaudid, but he went into respiratory failure the next morning, and coded before they could transfer him to the intensive care unit. They could not resuscitate him.

Pancreatic cancer was like that. Struts around as if perfectly fine, and then _whoosh_ , gone.

"Mike," John said afterwards, when he shared these stories with his classmate, "I want to cut people. I want to sew, to do all of that stuff instead of standing around and talking. But I am _not_ going to undergo surgery, for _anything._ If I need to be on dialysis, just let me die. _Especially_ if I'm already demented. If I get cancer, just give me lots of dilaudid. Give me like, a hundred packs of them, and twenty pills of Xanax."

"You want to write that in your will?"

John, of course, did undergo surgery later. There was no way to talk a bullet out of one's body, or to lecture a wound closed. Yet he always knew that when the time came to it, he would not try to postpone death. It boggled him, why people would go through such lengths, such suffering, just to stick around to be burdens to other people. As a childless bachelor with few friends and a sister already on her way to being a drunkard, John Watson saw no reason for such lunacy. Quick, sudden, in an unknown land far away from home, when without the bullet he would have been fit and fine—yes, he wanted to live, please, God, let him live. But if his body and mind were already failing, if all survival meant was more machines, more pills, more pain…

What would he go through that for?

* * *

He could breathe. He could run.

He tried pushups when he got home. Twenty-five with one arm, though he was out of shape from civilian life. Not a problem.

_Denial._

"Don't touch those!" Sherlock yelled as he entered the room, and John looked reflexively at the kitchen, which he had actually avoided. "Those need to sit for at least two more hours. I'm going to look at them when we come back."

He visited John as the latter was being released from the hospital. John had done his best to appear casual, and even Sherlock, the brilliant observer that he was, could not see everything while he was distracted. The new case was frustrating yet puzzling, and Sherlock spent most of the time talking through it to John, his observations, his deductions, Anderson's incompetency, Lestrade's long-suffering.

"…drunkard, of course, his phone looked exactly like yours even though it was only bought two months ago. Likes to visit the Starbucks on eleventh street based on the smell of his clothes…"

John had breathed, for the first time hardly listening. He was thinking, not about himself or his figure, but about Sherlock. His eagerness for intellectual stimulation, enthusiasm over puzzles, rejection of sentiment or anything else that could hinder one's logic.

_Ordinary man…_ John thought to himself, _no accomplishments to speak of, except making this one amazing friend. That's an accomplishment, no?_

He reflected on their adventures as Sherlock took a seat in his armchair. "Go make some tea, will you?" his request butted in. John rose to his feet before his mind even wrapped around the question—more of a command, really. Suddenly, he was remembering a Chinese family he had once taken care of as a surgeon before he went to the army; a mother was dying from heart failure, and the daughter had given up work to take care of her. Bedpans, blankets, washclothes, combs. The mother was thin, but the daughter actually seemed thinner. Tired. Stretched, like Bilbo from Lord of the Rings, functional but exhausted, depleted, hopeless and desperate. She had lost her job to take care of the mother, and when the patient finally passed away, the young woman wept in that stuffy room with blue curtains and fake flowers, wishing she had done more. Wishing that she had not been so tired that she was half-praying for her mother to die and find release so she could finally rest herself, and then regretting that wish, deep remorse and guilt, because she was such a bad daughter that she had wished her own mother to die. 5'2" and maybe 39 kilos at most, she was a pretty woman,or at least would have been if taking care of her mother had not aged her so. Thirty years old, looking like fifty. That was dramatic, for an Asian. What was the mother, 55? History of GERD, osteoarthritis—

"What are you doing?" Sherlock suddenly asked.

John looked up. He had been standing in front of the stove for a long time, pot in hand. He placed it on the stove and turned the stove on.

"Sorry. Brain's not working quite right yet."

He saw Sherlock give him a considering look, but did not acknowledge it.

* * *

He was sitting at the café across the surgery when Mycroft slid into the seat across from home. John continued staring down at his coffee. He did not want to go back to the surgery yet.

"I was expecting you to stop working," the elder Holmes said softly.

John shrugged. It figured that Mycroft already knew. Probably had his people hack into the hospital files or something. Him being the British Government was very annoying, but it was not like John could do anything about it. Especially not now.

"Sarah knows. I need to sign off on my patients though."

There was a long pause. John took a sip of his coffee. He had gotten it black, no sugar. God, that was bitter.

"Sherlock doesn't know," Mycroft remarked.

"He's been a little busy with his case."

"Are you planning to tell him?"

John finally looked him in the eye. "Let me guess. If I don't, you will."

Mycroft splayed his hands out, palm upwards. "This is entirely your decision, Doctor. However, I should warn you that my brother will not take it well either way. He is likely to be even more displeased if you do choose to withhold this from him."

John grinned. "Look at you. 'Displeased'. You're so funny."

Mycroft was still wearing his long grey coat. He stared back at John, silent, his face absent of any mirth.

John looked out the window. London bustled, busy as ever. Bright blonde hair went briskly past, atop high heeled boots. A dog, a black labrador. A few sparrows. A brunette in a parka.

"I haven't even made my decision yet," he said.

"What's keeping you?"

"It's a big procedure," John replied, "for a small guarantee."

John would know.

"You ever did it yourself?"

"Oh, yes. At least a hundred. Once back to back, and they both lasted over ten hours. My sneakers were good but…my feet were still aching two days later."

"What are the odds of surviving?"

"Depends."

Mycroft waited, feeling it unnecessary to prod.

"Stage I was 25-30%. It gets worse as you go on. Plus there's chemo."

"What stage are you?"

"Stage IIB. Not sure what kind it is, not that any of them are good."

Mycroft frowned. "Why are you so unwilling to find out?"

John shrugged. He sipped his coffee again.

"I often thought I should have died in Afghanistan," he confessed. "Didn't really understand why I survived. Can't even do surgery, after that. You see a lot of death when you're a doctor. My first year on the wards, I saw five deaths myself. It's the dying process that is scarier, not the end of it. When you're dead, you're dead," he leaned back, "and the ones you leave behind are the ones that grieve. But if you try to survive, you deny it, you're in denial, you reach for that 25% possibility that you'll live, combined with the 40% possibility that the remainder of your life will be shit and you'd spend most of it in a hospital hooked onto a ventilator with a crash cart on standby, you can't talk, you can't move, you can't be bothered to learn what's going on beyond you, and you're almost unconscious with dilaudid, and then they give you miralax to make you shit, your abdomen's a huge bruise because they give you heparin shots, your creatinine bumps and then they pump you full of fluids to protect your kidneys—" he cut himself off for a moment. "I wouldn't come out of it ready to run behind Sherlock on cases, Mycroft. Chances are, I'd be even more crippled than I am now." He looked up at Mycroft. "I once asked God to let me live. He's shown me what it could mean. Ultimately, Sherlock saved me," at this, he smiled, "but he won't be able to save me from this."

"'Chances are'. 'Possibility'. You're talking all about the worst case scenarios," Mycroft pointed out.

"I've seen enough that I don't want to take that chance," John replied. "Pancreatic cancer is a bad cancer. One of the worst, if not _the_ worst. But it lets you live your life before it kills you," he nodded. "Painkillers don't always work when the end comes, in fact, they rarely do. Your body screams at you that something's wrong," he smiled again, "but compared to the slow deaths many other cancers cause, pancreatic cancer is merciful. I'd be able to run behind Sherlock all the way up until the end. Be like that awful cabbie," at this, he had to suppress a chuckle, "and continue driving around, working. No one would really know. And I want that, you know? I don't want to waste time, waste life, going through all these drugs, losing my hair, feeling like shit. I want to enjoy life while I still have it, and I want to enjoy it with Sherlock. I don't want him mourning me before I'm already dead."

"You might not die," Mycroft insisted, and John realized that for all his passive demeanor, the elder Holmes was scared. "You can go through with the Whipple. They could take all the cancer out."

"Not likely," John stated. "They only saw one lymph node, but I had a PE, Mycroft. That usually comes late in cancer."

"You usually have symptoms before you have a PE."

"True." So Mycroft had been reading up on this. John had to smile. The British Government was looking up on his well-being. That had a certain humor to it. "But PE's are bad, Mycroft." He looked aside. "In retrospect, I probably should have let that kill me now, instead of waiting for death later. It's going to be really bad. I better be unconscious for most of it."

He was not going through the Whipple, John knew. Even though the surgeon still had him on the schedule, John was going to say no. He was already looking ahead to how it will be as he lay on his deathbed. Probably a belly as ballooned as his former patients, reclining like an asshole and totally high on opiates. Dilaudid and Benadryl. That was what the malingerers liked to have. He could try it and see what the fuss was all about. He wasn't able to last time.

Today was Friday. He had one week and four days to call. He will call tonight.

Mycroft looked aside. "Sherlock calls himself a 'highly functioning sociopath'." He looked back at John. "The truth is, Sherlock feels too much. If you do this, John, it will kill him."

The words provoked a sliver of doubt in John's heart.

"He's done fine before he met me," he pointed out.

"Just think about it," Mycroft said, instead of answering.

* * *

John smiled and made tea and made phone calls to doctors he had referred his patients to. He checked his email and wrote in his blog, agreed to go with Sherlock to examine the park and local stores like he usually did. Somehow, Sherlock still figured out something was wrong.

True to form, the way he announced this was to turn to John as they were heading home and asking, "What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with _you_?" John stared at him, putting on his best incredulous mask. He was a doctor. He knew how to act. It was half of the job these days.

"Don't try," and Sherlock scowled, "you've been acting off ever since the hospital. Pulmonary embolism. They did a cat scan. What did it show?"

'Nothing,' John wanted to say. 'Everything's normal'. Except when it came down to it, he could not lie to Sherlock, even if the man could not smell a lie from halfway across the world.

"This is not the place for this conversation," he said at last.

"Tell me," Sherlock demanded, as impatient as ever, but John had a stubborn will of his own.

"We should get back first. _I_ need to sit down for this." Because in the end, John was not sure how Sherlock would react. Apathetic? Perhaps not. John had taught him better than that by now. Falsely sympathetic?

He made tea first, much to Sherlock's frustration. It was not until they were both sitting with the cups in hand; Sherlock's knee bouncing up and down like it were being tased—that John began.

"They found a mass," he told Sherlock, "at the head of the pancreas. It's a tumor, and it's spread to one node. Stage IIB, we call it."

Sherlock did not really have a face for complete shock. It was more the lack of movement, how his face really looked like marble, and his eyes became more vivid, focused, but without calculation.

"Is surgery an option?" he asked.

"It's a bad option," John replied.

"Why is it bad?"

"Because the surgery is a complicated procedure. Pancreaticoduodectomy, or 'Whipple procedure'. It involves slicing off part of the stomach, duodenum, bile duct and gall bladder, along with the head of the pancreas. It's risky, it's got a high rate of complications, and you might live for five years if you're lucky."

"When are you going to do it?"

John hesitated. Despite having his doubts before, he could not deny that his next words would provoke a shitstorm. "I'm not."

Sherlock paused for a full five seconds. It was the longest five seconds of John's life—this must be how Sherlock felt when everyone else was trying to think.

"What?" he demanded.

* * *

Sherlock had been mean, callous, inconsiderate, and annoyed before. He had never been angry at John, as far as John could remember.

There was a lot of yelling.

"You're just looking at all the negative things that can happen!" Sherlock spat while he pointed vehemently at the computer screen. "Look, the Americans—Johns Hopkins posted that survivors rate a 79 out of 100 in terms of how well they can function!"

"Sherlock—"

"They slice and they sew and that's that! You've been operated on before! What's the difference?"

"Sherlock, I've _done_ these procedures. I've taken care of patients afterwards—"

"Well of _course_ you're only going to see how they suffer—people don't come to the hospital if they're doing well!"

"I do happen to follow-up on my patients as well, thank you—"

"No, you're just scared," Sherlock turned to him with his eyes blazing, "I never thought you were a _coward_ , John Watson! You never seemed this pathetic—"

John was done listening to him. He turned and retreated to his bedroom, slamming the door closed.

* * *

He stared up at his ceiling from his bed, looking at the various cracks in the paint. An hour and a half passed before Sherlock opened his door without knocking. John was about to tell him to piss off, but Sherlock was subdued this time. Maybe they could have a proper conversation, like adults.

He did not realize how much he was fuming until Sherlock's words took it out.

"I don't want you to die."

The remark, considering the person speaking and the circumstances, was actually rather inane. Stupid enough that John knew just how much it took for Sherlock to vocalize that simple thought. He looked over at his flatmate.

"The Whipple's not necessarily going to save me."

"I know," Sherlock wavered. He was still fully dressed, John noted; he had not changed out of his clothes, only putting his coat and scarf on the hanger.

"I cheated death many times already," John pointed out, "at least for this one, I get to say goodbye."

Sherlock clenched his teeth. "I am prepared…" he inhaled coarsely, "I am prepared to fight for you. Every step of the way. I will do that. I will pour everything I've got. As long as you do it too."

John sat up at this. He knew a vow when he heard it. Sherlock's eyes glittered at him, glossy with desperation.

"Five years," he said softly, "One year's not even a good chance. And all the while, I would be living a pale imitation of a life. I wouldn't be able to help you on cases. I would probably be sick all the time. I use to tell patients with relatives who have this cancer to book them trips around the world. Let them get totally wasted. Live life to the fullest. Don't bother with chemo."

"I don't care about the cases."

John looked away. "I'll drag you along with me. You're underestimating what this is."

"I know exactly what this is. You're afraid of losing, so you're giving up now. That's cowardly of you."

"It's not a question of giving up, Sherlock. The battle's already over."

"No it isn't! You said this was operable!"

"And the operation does jack!"

"No it doesn't! It certainly gives you more of a chance than you do without it!"

"It's not meaningful, Sherlock!"

"It is to me!"

John stared at him, stunned beyond words.

In two strides, Sherlock was upon him, hands cupping the sides of his head and his own face close, eyes right in front of his. Ludicrously, the words _I'm **not** gay_echoed in his brain, but they washed away with the intensity of Sherlock's words.

"Every minute counts to me," he whispered, the voiceless words like a scream. "Every minute counts. Please. You haven't lost yet. We haven't lost yet. You're not dead yet, and you can live. Every second counts. You can't give up."

* * *

Cancer liked to metastasize to the spine, so when a 36-year-old Russian woman with squamous cell lung cancer with established metastases to the liver showed up, weeping due to severe upper back pain that radiated to her arms, they did a STAT MRI of her thoracic spine. Which showed nothing, so the medicine team was forced to admit her. Everyone grumbled, because they had no idea what to do; there was no physical source of her pain, and they figured it was just a paraneoplastic syndrome; the body just complaining about how it was eating itself. There was not much more to be done than throw narcotics at her, so John went about his business looking at charts, copying labs and writing his SOAP note, copying the assessment of "paraneoplastic syndrome" and signing and dating, making sure to label himself as "med student".

Their attending was not an oncologist, and certainly not her personal doctor. She did see an oncologist at St. Barts, though, and one day the man went over to pay her a visit. Her family was there, including her 55-year-old mother. John went to observe how he spoke to the family.

"There are other options I can give you," he said, "I know that these recent developments seem like a step back, but we have other medicines we can try, if you're open."

"No," the woman wailed, "I want to stop. I want it to end. I'm tired. I want to stop."

Her mother was frantic. "Listen to me," she exclaimed, "You listen to me. You can't give up. You can't just stop fighting. We are here for you, we don't think you are a burden, we want you with us. Don't you quit now. Don't give up."

The oncologist listened calmly, but when the mother thought she was done, he added, "It's your choice. If you want us to stop all medicines, all invasive procedures, and just keep you comfortable, that's fine with me. That is completely appropriate. I am just letting you know that there are other options, we have not exhausted all of our resources yet. You can think about it for a bit. In the meantime, I'll let the primary team know to keep you as comfortable as possible."

He came out and told John, "We haven't exhausted everything…but she's Stage IV. She's never going to be 100%. You'll see a lot of this when you talk to families; family members will try to manipulate the patient and tell them, 'don't give up! You can't give up!' There's a difference between giving up, and saying 'you know what? All of this painful effort to postpone the inevitable isn't working for me. I just want to live life to the fullest for as long as I have left'. Because these treatments do decrease the quality of life, and you have to make a decision, is it worth suffering more to live just a little longer, or is it better to just be comfortable for how long you've got?"

It was interesting then, because until the oncologist pointed it out, it never occurred to John that when family members say such things, they were 'manipulating'. He always thought of them as being encouraging, giving a proper pep talk. But afterwards, as he mused on the case, he came to agree with what the oncologist said. Calling it 'giving up' is inaccurate. That was not what patients were doing when they wanted to stop treatment, and to define it that way _was_ manipulative. Even if that was not the loved one's intention.

Afterwards, John would sporadically think back to this case, because it had caused such a paradigm shift.

* * *

But John could also see why some patients chose to fight for those extra days. He was no longer a young medical student, independent and free and without responsibilities.

"I'm sorry for this inconvenience," he said to the phone, while the surgeon reassured him, _"No, no, this is totally fine. I'll put you in for Wednesday? A patient just dropped from the schedule, so I can put you in."_

After confirming, John took a deep breath and glanced at Sherlock sitting on the sofa, feeling suddenly lost. This was it. He was going through with the procedure. The days ahead would be rough.

Sherlock stood and stepped over, placing a hand on the back of John's neck and squeezed.

"I'm here," he said.


	2. Chapter One

John's oncologist was a black woman who looked uncomfortably like Sally Donovan, except with a kind of peppy attitude that Donovan would never display. She discussed John's treatment regimen once he underwent the procedure with a few warnings consisting of "you'd likely feel like shit". Sherlock's irritation seemed to amuse John for some reason, enough that the man laughed as the two left the office.

"Oncologists are eternal optimists," said John, "and you kind of want them to be. If they're not, they're apathetic, and there's nothing worse than apathy."

Sherlock disagreed; John seemed to have forgotten how Sherlock loathed sentiment, but he kept these to himself. The fact felt false, somehow.

They saw John's surgeon once before the operation after getting more up-to-date radiographs. When the surgeon asked if they were a couple, for the first time Sherlock could recall, John did not correct the assumption.

"He's my best friend," Sherlock replied when John did not. He could not say why he did, except that after John had displayed such discomfort so many times, it felt wrong to leave that impression hanging.

The surgeon gave an overview of the procedure, even though Sherlock had already looked it up. He also listed the risks and alternatives (Sherlock buried his face in his hands at that one). Alternatives were, of course, doing nothing or just chemo, which would be like doing nothing except worse. Bleeding, infection, damage to surrounding organs—and that was not even including the damage to the actual organs in question. Perioperative mortality was about 4%, which was at least better than the 15% it had been in the 1970's. Pancreatic fistula was a specific potential complication, to which Sherlock waved his hand to stop the doctor from elaborating for his sake. Malabsorption—wave. And the cancer could come back.

That one pissed Sherlock off more than anything.

"Why, because you did a lousy job?" He snapped.

The surgeon contained his annoyance well, and probably focused it on Sherlock after John immediately acted as a buffer. At length, they came to the subject of his code status.

"No," John said instantly. Sherlock looked at him.

"DNR DNI?" the surgeon confirmed. "Well you'll be intubated for the procedure, obviously, but otherwise…"

"I don't want anything done," John insisted, pointedly not looking at Sherlock. _Don't you dare,_ he heard. _Don't you dare make me go through chest compressions and risk becoming a vegetable._

Sherlock said nothing.

Afterwards, they got into a black car sent by Mycroft, and John gave Sherlock a gentle scolding.

"Kindly refrain from pissing off people who are going to butcher me alive, Sherlock. I mean, we try to be professional, but taking out your anger at the doctor and making him think you're an asshole never made much sense to me, even before medical school."

"Don't worry. He thinks _you're_ an angel."

John clapped his hands over his eyes. "Doctors don't do Whipples unless they know what they're doing."

"Oh?"

" _I_ didn't do Whipples after residency."

Sherlock stared at him. "You're saying that he's a good surgeon just because he knows how to do a Whipple."

"Well, he certainly can't be a bad one."

"Or he's just good at explaining that everything was the result of one of his 'risks'," Sherlock huffed. This trick was not hard to deduce. "'Bleeding, infection, and damage to surrounding organs'? How vague can you get? You might as well just say 'anything can go wrong'. You can come in drunk, treat the corpse like a drum, and all of that would be 'complications'. No one would know any better!"

"'Corpse'?"

_Damn it…_ "…Patient!"

John chose not to pursue it. "It's not a security blanket for _anything,_ Sherlock. You can't accidentally slice the heart and call that 'damage to surrounding organs'."

"Oh, that's rich. You can't excuse yourself for being a _complete_ idiot."

"I thought you wanted me to get this surgery," John frowned at him.

That shut Sherlock up.

* * *

Sherlock told Greg Lestrade by calling him. The Detective Inspector had immediately known something was wrong; he _was_ the rare competent officer in NSY, and had enough wits about him to realize that it was unusual for Sherlock to call when he could text.

"John has pancreatic cancer," Sherlock said without preamble. Really, he was not sure what the purpose of preambles even _were_ , except to waste time.

Lestrade took a whole five seconds to process this. _"Shit,"_ he exclaimed. _"I'm coming over tonight."_

"Do," Sherlock replied, before ending the call.

True to his word, the man showed up at the flat, looking at John as if expecting him to be some kind of withered cadaver already. John, of course, was completely fine, with nothing on the outside to show that there was an illness festering inside him. The fact made it more horrifying, somehow. Sherlock depended heavily on observation; there was a reason he had been so unnerved at Baskerville. If he could not trust his senses, what could he trust? And yet other than the pulmonary embolism and John's subsequent altered behavior, there was nothing to hint that there was a cancer about to ravage his friend.

_"Pancreatic cancer is like that,"_ John had explained, _"You're fine for most of the stages, but then you deteriorate quickly and dramatically."_

"Whipple is Wednesday," John told Lestrade, "so I want to make the most of the days leading up to it, because after that I will spend a lot of time feeling like shit."

John was dwelling on that a lot, ever since agreeing to the Whipple. " _It's not going to be fun,"_ he had mused, _"fucking two-thirds of my duodenum. This is going to suck."_

His attitude was making Sherlock worry, despite himself. It was difficult to gauge how much John's quality of life would diminish with the Whipple. FAQs seemed to paint a more benign picture, but that still did not change the fact that about three-quarters of patients with Stage I die five years later, and it must happen _somehow_. Sherlock was not the type to doubt, but John had been acting like the operation, combined with the chemotherapy, was a fate worse than death.

"You'll do great," Lestrade patted John's arm, as if having surgery were something John would be active in, as opposed to knocked out with anesthesia and lying there like a corpse the whole time.

_He's not going to die. John won't die._

Even so, a well of fear sat in Sherlock's stomach, refusing to leave.

* * *

**The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**

14 October

_This is Sherlock Holmes. My friend John will probably not be posting for a while. He was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Fortunately, it's operable, and he is scheduled for a pancreaticoduodectomy next Wednesday. It really should be called pancreaticogastroduodectomy, since part of the stomach is sliced off. John told me that there is a variant that spares the stomach, but his surgeon told him that they would be taking the stomach anyway. Colloquially, this procedure is known as the Whipple Procedure._

_In light of this development, I will not be accepting any cases for now, as I will be supporting my friend through his operation and recovery. When he is ready, he will submit a new post on this blog. Until then, please do not contact us with any murders, thefts, missing persons, or any such problems._

_Sherlock Holmes_

_Consulting Detective_

* * *

John was _not_ happy when he found out Sherlock had posted the news on the blog.

"This is personal!" he yelled, looking truly angry.

Sherlock was honestly dumbfounded. "What's personal about it? It's nothing to be ashamed of. It's not like you were diagnosed with AIDS and people would talk."

"Oh my _God_ ," John seized his hair as he looked up at the ceiling, as if acting along with his apostrophe. "You don't get it. I don't know how you got this far when you're so incredibly _thick!_ "

Sherlock started getting it when that afternoon, the reporters started hounding on their door. Mrs. Hudson sat with John while John answered phone calls from former associates, from the army and from his residency years. It figured that it took a terminal illness to get his former colleagues back in touch. _Useless garbage,_ Sherlock thought venomously, though Mike Stanford was a welcome peer. He was also the only one to whom John revealed more about how he was feeling than _'I'm alright'._

"Juliana was my co-chief," he remarked, "and her kids are almost applying to medical school. There's nothing like hearing about all the families your colleagues are building while you're still a boring bachelor. What the fuck have I been doing with my life, Mike? Ha. Sherlock certainly acts like a child. Yeah, I mean six months versus however long the Whipple buys. No, the cancer started from somewhere. I doubt any bit of my pancreas is actually _normal_."

John was already acting like he had run out of time. Curiously, when he talked to an old intern and started reminiscing about the "old days", Sherlock felt that way too.

"…No my favourite was when Wayne was chief, and Dr. White was doing a lumpectomy—I've told you this story! No? They sent the sentinel nodes down to path, and White was grumbling because there was another case afterwards and it was already six; nodes came back positive, so White was so _pissed_ because now he had to do a whole mastectomy, and then Wayne said 'Ha! Looks like you're not as fast as you use to be, Dr. White!' White turned to the nurse and said, 'Can I have a towel?' Puts it over Wayne's head and _punches_ him in the damn face!" A wide grin split across John's face, and his eyes glittered in a way Sherlock had only seen when in the grip of an exciting murder. "No, he just went 'Get back to work!' like nothing happened. No. He's the epitome of that joke. He knows nothing and does everything. That's true…GI is always perf-ing. Those people are fucking useless…yeah, they always do it on a Friday when there's only one attending on call and the OR schedule has like eight colectomies…For an _appy?_ " He broke into a guffaw. "Wow, that's really brave of him."

His one-sided conversation made little sense to Sherlock, but it did make him realize that there was a whole life John had lived that Sherlock had _no_ understanding of. He had never bothered to investigate, because he had always assumed John was boring. John was rather dim, slow, quiet even if he was firm. It should have been obvious to Sherlock that John would be more than a long-suffering flatmate who would silently support Sherlock, obey orders and defend him from harm. John Watson was a surgeon. He had held lives in his hands, both on the fields of Afghanistan and in the operating rooms. He had been a king of his operating rooms, commanding nurses and anesthesiologists.

Sherlock always knew that John was amazing in his own way— _"That was_ … _amazing. Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary."_ The kind of person who would readily admit that was a person with true self-confidence, because anyone else would be defensive. John had substance, and it came from this life, a life that Sherlock had never found interesting until he realized, from his friend's ramblings, that he could not comprehend any of the references. He thought he knew everything about John, and yet this secret, this entire life that had been right in front of Sherlock's nose and could have been unveiled long before, if only he had bothered to _ask_ , was incomprehensible to him.

John had lost more than the thrill of danger when he was invalided home from Afghanistan.

"That's really gross," John shook his head and seemed to refer to a third party entirely, "You're a surgeon. You have no business wearing nail polish to work. It's not like anyone's going to see it under those gloves. What's wrong with these people? Even if the regulations changed—I don't like it."

He seemed to be in a relatively good mood when he ended the calls and went to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water.

"It's nice to hear from old friends," he said to Sherlock, "I haven't heard from them in years, but when you go through residency, a bond is forged. It's not unlike the bond between comrades-at-arms, because hospitals are run like the army sometimes. Strict hierarchy—in surgery, anyway—you follow orders from your superiors and you have a strong sense of _duty_. I remember when Harry seemed totally incapable of understanding why I couldn't just take the day off during a blizzard. You sleep at the hospital if you have to, but you better make sure you're there for signout. Not many people get that. And when you work together on services, you share night float, that sort of stuff stays. You're a family as long as you're on the same service, and when you're done, you're more than just friends."

Sherlock wondered if these colleagues could ever compete with what Sherlock and John had between them, before his logical mind dismissed the question as irrelevant. These colleagues had never bothered to contact John when he was first invalided from Afghanistan. Some friends they were.

"I miss being a surgeon, you know?" John broke into his thoughts. The man was looking into the distance without seeing, mind preoccupied with memories that can never be repeated. "It was hard, but I loved it. I loved doing things, instead of just talking. I don't even know if I can tie two-handed knots with a glove on anymore, let alone double-gloved with blood and fat all over it. I used to have those things down pat. I wouldn't have believed you if you told me I could forget it." He looked at his left hand, which had a mild tremor that only went away with adrenaline. "Though if I were a surgeon, there was no way in hell I would be able to help you on cases."

"Which life would you have preferred?" Sherlock found himself asking, even if it was not like that question had any point. John had not made the choice to be invalided and unable to do surgery.

"I honestly don't know," John admitted, still staring at his hand. "To tell you the truth, surgery got boring after a while. That's why I went into trauma, because you always see a different case. Otherwise, even though every patient is different and there are variants, after a while, all the umbilical hernias and colectomies and lobectomies started running together. Unless a person has Kartagener's or something, their liver's usually on the right side. You go through the same steps over and over again. It all loses its novelty after five years. I did go into the army to see new things, but I guess if I had stayed longer, that would have lost its appeal too." He looked at Sherlock. "If it were by choice? I think I would have preferred this. The hardest part was having that choice made for me. That part's always hard. But the results?" He shrugged. "I don't have a lot of accomplishments. I doubt, even if I weren't invalided, that I would come to fame and fortune as an army surgeon. The last few years with you justify my life, I think. I would have died happily yesterday, if it came to that."

"You still have time," Sherlock said, and wondered if he was convincing John or himself.

* * *

Some of John's co-residents visited him two days before his surgery. Sherlock put up with them since it was so important to John. He found himself barely able to keep from kicking everyone out. He was not even sure why they were so annoying, even if they were.

"John was my chief," said Dr. Smith, a tall, gangly fellow with long brown hair and brown eyes. "I always cheered whenever I find out that I'm on his service. He's one of the nicest blokes in the program."

"His sutures were always so neat," Dr. Faria, a Portuguese man with a narrow face and large nose, told Sherlock, "I had him pinned down for plastics, but he went to trauma."

"Nosejobs aren't really my interest," John said wryly.

"You could have done reconstructive surgery. For trauma."

"Too many drunk drivers. I got real sick of those idiots after a while. I don't know how ENT puts up with them."

"ENT?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Ear-Nose-Throat doctors," John clarified, a little surprised.

"Oh, of course." Sherlock mentally hit himself for being so stupid. _What else could it be?_

"You mean you weren't surrounded by idiots in Afghanistan?"

"Hey," John snapped, tone light but serious, "lay off my boys."

"Yes sir!" No salute, but the words came easily.

"Such a shame you're a GP now," said Dr. Green, much to Sherlock's intense displeasure. "What a downgrade. How is it, having to talk to so many people all day?"

"It's not that bad actually," John confessed, taking Dr. Green's insult in a stride. "GP's more interesting than surgery, in a lot of ways. Gatekeeper, so all the weird stuff has to pass through you first. Plus, it's a lot of preventive medicine, and I actually feel like I'm doing something when it works, rather than just cutting something out and then leaving the patient to deal with the aftermath. I didn't go into surgery because I didn't like talking to conscious people. I went in there for the cutting."

"For the bowels," Dr. Smith laughed. "I had you nailed down for colorectal."

"I should have gone into colorectal!" John slapped his chair. "I love bowels! They're so pretty, unless the patient's obese and they're all covered in fat. Even then though…"

"Bowels _are_ pretty," Dr. Faria agreed.

Sherlock blinked. That was strange, even for him.

"Unless they forgot the bowel regimen the day before," said Dr. Green, with a shudder.

For Sherlock's benefit, the group recounted mischief they were up to during their residency.

"We should tell him about the chocolate disaster," Smith said to John, who grinned.

"We should. Dan and I were on night float, and it was some month of the summer, I can't remember when anymore. Basically, for night float, you're in charge of several different services. I was in charge of Blue, Transplant, and White, and Dan was in charge of Red, Yellow, and Trauma teams. You don't know the patient because you didn't take their history and you don't actually see the patient yourselves, unless there's something wrong and the nurses page you up. But the point of night float is to make sure the patients are alive and as stable as possible for the day-team to take over in the morning, because you _don't know the patient_ , beyond the signout that the day team gives you. It's not supposed to be about making complicated decisions for the patient's care; if the patient is not dying, the nurse shouldn't page you."

"I swear, I still have nightmares where I think my pager went off and I wake up—"

"Me too!"

"Even when my real pager goes off, my heart still stops."

"That particular month, somehow the nurses didn't get the memo. They decided to page us with the stupidest things, without any sort of text to help us gauge whether this was an emergency or not. You know, 'Can Mr. Parry have water?' has a different urgency scale than 'Mrs. Dunham has SOB'." He paused. "SOB means Shortness of Breath."

"And it's doubly annoying, too, because every time you get paged, you're obligated to stop what you're doing to answer it, unless what you're doing is also urgent, then first-come-first-serve—but I'd be talking to a patient and my pager would go off five times within ten minutes, and the patient's like 'what the hell is going on?'"

"They double-page you too, which is usually a no-no," John shook his head, "I would hear the pager, reach for the phone, and _as I was dialing_ the pager would go off again, _from the same nurse,_ and then again as I was talking to the nurse, some other nurse would page me, all within half a minute. I mean, night float isn't supposed to be like this. You're supposed to make sure that the patient survives through the night so that the day-team can make the proper decisions in the morning."

"My pager ran out of the cap," Smith looked at John, "I got like 400 pages in two nights once. For night float. That's _insane_. This doesn't even happen during the _day._ "

"And we couldn't complain to anyone because by the time we come in, the day shift's over and people with office hours had gone home," John said to Sherlock. "So we figured, if we couldn't go whinging about it, we might as well go laughing about it, so we made a game. Kind of like those games where you drink every time someone uses the word that ends with '-itis'."

"But we couldn't take actual shots," said Dr. Smith, "because obviously, you can't work while inebriated. So Sarah and Joanne from the day teams made four gallons of chocolate—I don't want to call it _milk_. It was _way_ more potent than milk."

"There was cocoa, coffee, syrup, mixed with half-and-half. It wasn't milk."

"There's gotta be some secret ingredient. That thing woke me up far more effectively than any Red Bull."

"The game goes, every time we get paged," John told Sherlock, "we drink a 'shot' of chocolate milk as a sort of consolation prize. We figured, four gallons would be enough, but that particular night float the two of us went through all of it four hours before our shift ended."

"And I couldn't even _look_ at chocolate after that," Smith exclaimed.

"I actually _got_ sick," said John, "I think my pancreas had a stroke, because that was some stomach pain I had when I tried to go to bed that morning, and I had such weird bowel movements that I thought I had C diff."

"Stupid theobromine poisoning!" Smith laughed, "They don't teach us anything useful during medical school! Theobromine poisoning? Did you know you can get that through chocolate overdose?"

"Needless to say, we totally played that game again," John grinned, "because you have no business being a surgeon if you can't handle a little pain. And diarrhea." He paused. "We should play that game right now."

"You sure?" Smith asked.

"Why not?" John shrugged, "My pancreas is fucked either way."

Green and Faria immediately volunteered to purchase the necessary ingredients.

* * *

"God help us," Sherlock told John after his colleagues left, "you surgeons are some of the dumbest idiots I have ever come across."

"Hey," John exclaimed defensively, "I thought Anderson was the dumbest idiot. Besides, if you thought we were bad, you haven't seen urology. Anyway, I need to talk to you."

It was a serious 'I need to talk to you', so Sherlock was instantly at attention.

"I have you as my power of attorney," John slid a pile of papers over, "and I modified my will—"

Sherlock bowed his head in frustration. "Do we _really_ need to talk about this now?"

"Look, there is no _too soon_ for this kind of talk, unless you're a kid in which case that _might_ be a little too soon, but just because I drafted up my will doesn't mean I intend on dying from Wednesday. It's just a precaution. Now, you were there when I said I didn't want resuscitation or intubation, but I want you to know what I _do_ want, in case something happens and I'm not around to speak for myself."

It was all very logical, and Sherlock _should_ pay attention to this, but he could not stay still. Lurching to his feet, he stomped away from John, angry for no reason he could explain.

" _Sit down,_ " John suddenly commanded. It was a tone of voice Sherlock had never heard from him before.

The detective sat on the sofa, far away from where John was. He could not bring himself to match the other's gaze.

John looked like he wanted to sigh and just barely refrained. "If we talk about this, it doesn't mean I'll die," he pointed out, "Just as avoiding the topic doesn't spare me from death, if that is my destiny."

Sherlock scowled, still not looking at him.

"No," the doctor pointed, "In this matter, I know more than you. You deal with people after they die. I dealt with people while they were dying. If you can't do this, I will have to switch power of attorney to someone else. No clue whom," his lip twisted in distaste, "not Harry, anyway."

_Harry._ The name fueled his temper like a match to a dynamite. John's useless excuse of a sister hung up on him after he had told her about his condition, and had ceased to answer his calls or texts.

"I'm trusting you with my life, Sherlock," John said quietly.

Sherlock could not bring himself to respond. John took this as his cue.

"Transfusions are fine," he told Sherlock. "Wound debridements are fine. Medications are fine. Arterial lines are fine. Central lines are fine."

"What are central lines."

"Central lines are like IV's, but instead of in the arm, they go through one of three places." John gestured on himself. "Jugular, subclavian, and," he gestured at his thigh, "femoral."

He relaxed his arms. "Beyond those, I don't want very invasive procedures, though I will trust your judgment on what is minor enough that I would allow it."

_I don't know if that's wise,_ Sherlock thought miserably, but he knew better than to voice this out loud.

"If I become irreversibly comatose, I want hospice care. No outrageous measures. If I am not able to eat; no PEG tube."

"Stop." Sherlock raised his hands to his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. "Stop. Stop talking. I don't want to hear this."

After a moment, John leaned back. "That's fine," Sherlock heard him through his hands. "I'm pretty much done anyway. That's the gist of it."

Sherlock lowered his hands and glared at the fireplace. He felt cold from within, even though the temperature of their flat was as warm as always.

"Hey," John called to him, "I'm not dead yet."

"No you're not," Sherlock snapped.

"But I will die one day," the doctor pointed out. "You've always known that."

Logically, of course Sherlock did. He just never had to acknowledge it until now.

John made a sound like a suppressed laugh. "You deal with a lot of death," he observed, "but you don't really understand it, do you?"

"What's there to understand?" Sherlock turned to meet John's amused eyes. "Death is death. The end."

"No, but you've never lost someone close to you. For you, the deaths you've seen are no more remarkable than seeing a dead cockroach or a fly. Fascinating, in some ways, but it's not impressive to you. They're not so much _deaths_ , as just a change in state. You've never watched the fight, experienced the fight for survival along that person. You only see the aftermath. And that's fine." John's eyes were compassionate. It hurt. "I never thought that in this subject, I would know more than you, but I guess that's not surprising. It's hard for other people to understand, I think. They don't see how all of these battles unfold. And it _is_ a battle, kind of like football. How the game's won or lost is as important as what the scores were. It's something…I don't know. Other people might see a lot of death too, but it's different for doctors, because we fight for your survival along with you, even if we don't fight _for_ you.

"But more than just seeing the patients, you also see the family. You see parents grieve for their child, husbands for their wives. You see all the different ways. Some are completely, utterly devastated. Others grieve no less, but they aren't rendered incapacitated. They still function, and they carry the memory of their loved one with them. Grief can be a bearable emotion. And you can think back fondly, later on."

"You're not going to die," Sherlock said angrily. Why was John talking like he was going to die?

John did not say more, which was just to Sherlock's preference.

* * *

The day of the surgery, Sherlock waited in the Holding Area to support John.

Mycroft waited in the Holding Area to support Sherlock.

"God," John groaned, "I think the bowel regimen itself is enough to turn me off from this side of surgery."

"Whinging is unbecoming of you," Mycroft stated disapprovingly. "Please, you've endured much worse."

"…I don't know about that. Now I _really_ understand why we frequently find gold nuggets when we weren't counting on any."

John was scheduled for 7:00. He was brought here at 6:30. There was one other patient, an old woman in her late eighties for an orthopedic procedure. An old drunk who broke her ankle, likely because she stumbled around inebriated and could not gauge a fall. Sherlock snarled. He felt like he was a wire that was coiled too tightly.

"Hey," John rested a hand on his arm, "it's going to be fine."

Hypocrite, but Sherlock could not bring it in himself to shrug it off.

"The thing lasts six hours, and then there's post-anesthesia and other logistics. Go home, eat something, solve a case, and come back."

As if Sherlock would dare to do anything that would distract him from his friend.

John's hand left him, and Mycroft stepped closer, a dark pillar for Sherlock to lean on even though he was speaking to John.

"I'll figure something out," he said, "you'll be fine."

John just smiled.

People kept coming up to the bed to sign the chart. Some nurse, the anesthesia attending, the surgical attending himself, and then the anesthesia attending sat and poked needles into John. Mycroft stayed close, and Sherlock found himself feeling reluctantly grateful. With Mycroft's presence, at least they could ensure that all the logistics were taken care of.

And then it was time.

Once the preparations were done, everything happened quickly. The anesthesiologists pushed a sedative into John immediately, to help relax him. They switched off the breaks with a loud _thunk_ and started wheeling the bed out. Sherlock was already seeing the start of the effects when he reached down and grabbed John's hand.

"We'll be here when you come out," he promised.

John squeezed back with a smile. "Go do something. You'll get bored."

And then he was past Sherlock and out the doors.

Sherlock and Mycroft stared after it for a few seconds, before they both turned and made their way to the waiting room.

It will be a long six hours.


	3. Chapter Two

One day, at the end of a case, John and Sherlock had walked back to their flat on Baker Street. Sherlock was fuming at himself— _it's always that **one** th_ _ing—_ and John, normally reserved in giving his opinions, had stated, _"Well, of course. You can't see—"_ and then cut himself off.

Sherlock, who was expecting something annoyingly patronizing like "you can't be perfect, Sherlock, even if you think you can" or "everyone misses something, you're already amazing as it is", did not miss how oddly he had phrased it, and had latched on immediately: _"What do you mean?"_

Like a turtle, John had withdrawn, attempting to wave it off as some slip of the tongue or simply lousy word choices, but Sherlock did not let him get away. Finally, John had reluctantly hinted, _"There's a reason anything that can see has more than one eye. Brain can compensate for depth perception, you know. But there's a scotoma in every visual field, which is why you need two fields with different scotomas so that the rest of the fields make up for each other."_

A scotoma was essentially a blind spot. That, Sherlock knew. What he didn't know was why John had answered this way. He knew that there was a very good reason. John was not as sharp as Sherlock, but there was always a depth to him. From the moment they met, Sherlock knew John was different, because John did not balk at Sherlock's idiosyncrasies. He took almost all of them in a stride, as if everything Sherlock did were normal and nothing to gawk at. It was as if John had _known_ him, the moment he laid eyes on him, and saw behind what others would perceive as bizarre tendencies.

For a doctor, especially a former surgeon, John had always been unassuming. There were times when Sherlock would forget that John was even a physician. John was just John, a man Sherlock had liked from the start, quietly present and non-judgmental. It was what tied the two together so closely. Sherlock had always been judged, by his parents for his bizarre taste for the macabre, by his brother for being stupid, by his peers for being strange. Though John would remark and complain about something he would never have to put up with from anyone else, he was never demeaning, and Sherlock never felt belittled or forsaken for it. In this instance, the fact that John _was_ a doctor would be very apparent. Not all doctors shared the same level of equanimity, but there was a profundity to him that came only from being in contact with many different personalities, and being acquainted with their life arcs. While Sherlock was gifted in predicting the immediate futures, the tiny details that could lead to one conclusion, John had a knack for telling long-term outcomes, the way personalities might click or drift apart, how neglect or attention would yield neglect or attention in return. Sherlock knew the surface aspects: John was an army doctor, was shot, craved danger—John knew the core: Sherlock was flighty, craved his own personality, and would fly, far far away, denouncing any ties that would hold him back and threaten his individuality. He had once stated, with great gravity, that if Sherlock's parents were ever ill, Sherlock would only visit them if he had nothing better to do, and the burden of caring for their parents would fall on Mycroft, both because he had the resources and because he would accept the duty. It was something that Sherlock knew to be quite true, of course. However, he had never specifically thought about it until John pointed it out.

So it was important to Sherlock when John said such things, such as equating his inability to perform 100% with something to do with blind spots and two eyes. He felt like it should be extremely simple—John was not a complex man, even if he was profound—but in his frustration and subsequent distraction, he never got around to answering it.

Now, left alone with Mycroft, Sherlock loaded John's blog on his phone. When he got to the section where John talked about his ignorance of the solar system, he paused. There was something about that part that nagged at him, though he could not say why. John was not the sort of man to be inconsiderate of other people's feelings. Quite the opposite. He had left out, for example, how Sherlock tested his hypothesis on John by attempting to drug John's tea, perhaps on the basis that Sherlock was wrong. Yet he had typed in this section, an obvious dig at Sherlock's intelligence, and then reacted as if Sherlock's anger had been unreasonable.

Sherlock could not fathom why.

John's voice spoke to him from the words, wry and full of humor, as if he were smiling. There was very little in the blog about John himself, though. It was mainly about Sherlock, his admiration for the detective, his amusement, occasional frustration, and a deep-seated gratitude. Short and to the point— _"We don't waste words, not like GPs,"_ John had said, _"Just palpate your abdomen and go—"_ John was in his blog as he was in real life: unassuming, unobtrusive, inconspicuous.

"He seems so dull in the blog," Mycroft said thoughtfully. He had been reading Sherlock's phone from the side. "Why _did_ you bring him on the first case?"

"A whim," said Sherlock. "I didn't know he would accept until he did."

"He should be paid for putting up with the sort of stunts you pull," Mycroft snorted. "Never thought I would meet a man who is remarkable for something as boring as _patience_."

"He's a wise man," Sherlock defended. "He is the one person I can learn from in this world."

"True enough," Mycroft agreed, to Sherlock's mild surprise. "He is a great man in his own right. Shame this world does not highlight qualities like his."

Sherlock did not speak. He stared at the blog, wishing it could reveal more about the man who was his colleague and friend and even brother. He wished John had kept journals from when he was a student, or a resident. Just…something that was more about himself.

 _Five years_ , he thought, looking at the clock. Tick tock.

* * *

_13-1-1998, 21:14_

_On 24 hr call, damn it, and the cases finished by 1500. Why can't I be on call during a colectomy? At least I wouldn't feel all the hours like I could have gone home. But we debrided Thompson's hidradenitis, finally. It smelled like arse. My medical student nearly passed out. I sent her to get lunch. I wish someone could send me to get lunch. Being a resident is awful.  
_

_I'm starting in the wrong order. Today I woke up at 2:40 in the morning because we have 65 people on our list. I want to kill myself; they should have more than three general services when each of us is always at least 50. Thank god for the med students, because otherwise there was no way we could have seen everyone for rounds. And even then, rounds went over, and Dr. Speller was pissed, because he had to delay his first OR case. Of note, Mary White got a nice bout of atelectasis because she didn't know how to use her spirometer. It figures. She's probably not going home anytime soon. Wayne Bishop's bowels refuse to wake up, so he's still dependent on TPN. He's the most annoying bloke in the world; every time we go into his room he has a million questions and he's so emotional too, so a 2-minute visit takes 30. Does this guy have a brain? Because if he's just going to forget everything we've said to him anyway, then I want to just cut him off so we can see the 64 other patients. That guy can't leave soon enough._

_Joan Watson was a sad case though. 32 yo F with colon cancer. Non-smoker, non-drinker, she's the cleanest whistle that ever whistled. Why does a nice girl like that get something like this? And she's handling post-op really poorly. 39.4 fever POD 4, and she's in so much pain that of course she gets a DVT. There's nothing much we can do for her except pump her full of heparin, at least until the pain's controlled enough for her to ambulate. And she gets to have a fucking ostomy when she gets out. Poor girl._

_So after those cheerful roundings, with the ever pleasant Dr. Speller, I got to hang out with him in the cases today, because God loves tormenting his little mortals. Case-in-point: that stinking hidradenitis, and then the umbilical hernia, and my sweat dropped into the mesh while we were suturing it in. It's not my fault the room was so hot, but Speller shouted at me like I deliberately squirted it in. We had to take the mesh out and do it all over again with a different mesh and I had to stay far away from the op table because apparently, I'm a lousy surgeon. For sweating. I hate my life. Stupid hernias—I miss trauma, because at least those were interesting! Next case was hemorrhoid banding, at least, so we didn't have to be as sterile. Weird though, she was a skinny little Asian woman. Never figured that those folks would have a problem with fiber._

_Fuck, my pager's off. I'm writing this down for the record: I'm betting that it's some seventy-year-old drunk who fell in the bathroom and gave himself a subdural hematoma. Likely? Likely. We shall see later. —John Watson_

_22:04_

_It totally was an SDH! But the lady had Parkinson's, so not so bad. Neurosurg gave me a lot of shit though. It's a SDH, there's no argument here! You have to admit her to your service! It's not like we idiot gen-surgs can do a craniotomy. Seriously, what is up with these residents? Even I don't go so far as to fight patients who actually need to be on my service._

_Ugh, my pager's off again. It better not be another SDH. —John Watson_

_22:24_

_How the hell did I get a consult for "asymptomatic appendicitis"? I swear these ER docs get worse every year. This is a winner: 54 yo M who came in for abdominal pain—that resolved. The ER resident ordered an abdominal CT for some reason and the radiologist read that there "might be some inflammation of the appendix". The chap had no pain. Zero. Nothing. I was mashing on his belly and he didn't even flinch. I swear, they should fire everyone in the ER. "Asymptomatic appendicitis". What are they teaching in med schools these days?_

_Damn it, my pager is off again. Seriously? I'm not getting any sleep tonight, am I? —John Watson_

_03:47_

_Ex-lap. 23 yo bastard got fucking stabbed. The kicker was that he's been operated on before…for getting stabbed. There were adhesions everywhere, so of_ _course_ _this thing turns into a how many hours has it been? Holy shit we were in there for 5 hours? Oh my God. Well, I was planning on writing more of the actual day, but I have to pre-round. Maybe tomorrow. Or, uh, yeah. This is tomorrow. Already. So I guess the evening after, because I'm going straight to bed after rounds today. —John Watson._

* * *

Six hours later, almost on the dot, John's surgeon waltzed into the waiting room with a cap over his head and his mask still on his face.

"He did very well," he shook Sherlock's hand, as if this were something Sherlock ought to be personally proud of. "He's in PACU, and the nurses will let you know when he's headed up to the floors. Great job. Couldn't have gone better."

It was one obstacle over, and Sherlock found he could breathe. Though he knew the chances were smaller than his fears made them seem, surviving surgery was not an insubstantial victory. "Can I see him now?" he asked.

"Well, the anesthesiologists need to look over him first," said the surgeon, "so it'll be a while. We don't let people back there because when it gets cluttered, things get lost, things are confusing, and we _really_ don't want that around our patients."

Sherlock turned to Mycroft, but it was clear his brother was not going to step in to bend the rules.

"It might take a while," said the surgeon, lifting a phone to his ear, "I gotta get started on the next case, but I'll be rounding on him later. Alright?"

Nearly three hours passed before John was wheeled up to the floors. He was covered with layers of warm blankets, which radiated heat in a way that made Sherlock suspect they had come out of some kind of oven or incubator. Mycroft secured a private room, so when the staff finished establishing everything, the three of them were left alone.

John was groggy from all the painkillers, but he lifted his gown to look at the drain coming out of his abdomen. Some blood collected along the tube poking from _inside_ the man's belly, fixed in place by thick stitches that looked sharp and uncomfortable. The sight filled Sherlock with unease. Things were not supposed to come out of a living person.

"Huh," John looked at the bulb and the small collection of blood in it. "Not bad."

The wound itself was covered with white dressings. John did not allow Sherlock to take a look.

"They will stay on for 24 hours," he told Sherlock. "You can look at the staples later."

"Any pain?" he asked anxiously.

John shook his head. "Not really. Feel fuzzy, though." He looked up. "Did you get some sleep?"

Sherlock stared at him, speechless.

John glared at Mycroft. "You were supposed to think of something."

"He wouldn't have slept even if he went home," Mycroft pointed out, "and it's not like he had anything better to do at home."

John shook his head, but seemed to accept this.

"My throat feels awful," he exclaimed, "I wish I could drink. NPO really sucks."

John did not use so many medical abbreviations before. Sherlock was not sure whether he liked this new development. On the one hand, he thought it was annoying and unnecessary, but John did it so easily and naturally, and it was like watching his old self, which he had kept hidden all this time, unfold before Sherlock at last.

"How long before they let you eat?" Mycroft asked.

"Probably at least five to six days before they let me have clear liquids. Bowels need to wake up. They took quite a bashing." He turned his head to the side and closed his eyes.

Sherlock and Mycroft sat down in silence.

* * *

The nausea started late that night.

Perhaps it was more of a build. John did not elaborate. All Sherlock knew was that when the nurse came to take John's vitals, the man whimpered, and kept whimpering.

"What's wrong?" the nurse asked. Sherlock twitched his head to listen. Mycroft had left as the evening drew to a close, offering his car for Sherlock to return to 221B. Sherlock only had to think of the flat, empty with lifeless clutter, to rudely turn down Mycroft's offer.

"…sick."

"You feel nauseous?"

 _It's **nauseated**. Ugh. Learn English, for crying out loud._ She was a healthcare provider, how could she not know? But Sherlock chose not to correct her in favor of looking at John, who nodded weakly.

"Okay, I'll page the surgeon on call to ask if we can increase your Zofran, okay?"

Sherlock suddenly had an image of John, starting at his pager, and then reluctantly drinking a shot of chocolate before reaching for the phone.

Sherlock did not often feel nauseated; in fact, it had been years since he had been sick. He did remember how potent it was, and got up from his next of blankets on the couch to check on John. Skin warm, though not too warm. Sherlock reached for his hand.

"Bad?" he asked.

John inhaled but did not reply.

Sherlock expected a doctor to come by, but the nurse entered moments later to start John's Zofran.

"It's just Zofran," John whispered, "they won't come."

He did not vomit. He just lied there, silently suffering, while Sherlock waited with bated breath for the antiemetic to do its work. When John finally fell asleep, there was a stillness to him that Sherlock did not like. He had never seen John like this before.

No puzzle. No creativity. Just a disease, cut out, along with parts that were not diseased. How dull. _Boring_.

Helpless.

How John could just _accept_ all of this, with the kind of calm and serenity he had accepted everything else, was beyond Sherlock's comprehension. Sherlock's world was one where people came to misfortune only because they were too stupid to avoid it. Getting shot, stabbed, kidnapped, all of these things could be dodged, if one was sharp enough. He had even drugged himself up with no long-term consequence. Not this senseless, random blow from inside, despite doing everything right and being a good man. If Sherlock were in John's place, he wold have gone mad; to be confined to bed, waiting around for other people to do things and for things to happen, nauseated, unable to move, unable to _think_ —he would probably kill someone.

 _"I've done amputations,"_ John had told him once, _"in the army, sometimes a limb has to go. Arm, leg, both. Doesn't matter. I never really felt all that much about it; it had to be done, no use thinking about it. And I didn't want to. Didn't want to think about how much harder it will be for these people. They're going to go everywhere and draw stares. They're going to have to crane their necks from their wheelchairs, go around the long way, or perhaps be trapped because there's no ramp at all. They can't put all of their groceries in one arm to open the door for themselves. You see people get by. They usually do. You adapt or you die, and once you come to terms with what has happened to your body, life is still worth living. But it is hard to watch, all the same. These…able-bodied, healthy men. All soldiers are healthy and fit, of course. They train, they exercise, they learn to do two hundred crutches, and all that power, packed in those muscles. You listen to their hearts and it's strong, it pounds at your stethoscope and through the earpieces, as if saying 'Mmph! Oh yes! I am here and I am working, ah-hah, I am working!' There is something about palpating abdomens too—it's different to palpate a young abdomen, whether it is male or female. You can feel it, and it's not just because of the skin texture—I could feel with gloves on. Young versus old, no matter the habitus. So you see such fine specimens of nature—nature had shaped these beautiful, healthy, strong bodies, with so much potential…and then this world ruins it. It hurts, to see that loss, because it's the death of a dream, and no matter which way you rationalize, you feel like you swung the axe."_

Sherlock had taken it as inevitable that John would be with him till the end. The man craved danger, and would clearly make room in his life for Sherlock's cases—for _Sherlock_ , no matter what happened in his life. He saw himself and John growing old, sitting on the park benches watching people, John listening to his deductions as always, though they were both old and grey. They fit, like two halves of a puzzle, two magnets opposite each other. Why would they ever separate, once they have found each other?

But John's still form seemed like a shadow before the real image. Seeing him actually sick made all of this more real, somehow. Before, John had been almost normal—not quite up to his usual stamina, perhaps, but that was hardly worth noticing. Vibrant and full of vitality, like a proper soldier.

He fell asleep at some point. He dreamed that he and John were walking home from a case, but then they were walking to someplace else, or at least John was. Sherlock tried to follow, but despite his best efforts, John was going further and further ahead of him. He cried out, calling for John to stop, but John kept going. Then Sherlock was alone, and he began searching, looking for John, examining every detail and looking for any sign of where the blonde man might have gone, but there were no signs, and he never found him.

* * *

_15-1-1998, 19:00  
_

_Hemicolectomy procedure today. Dr. Mackey's patient, 43 yo M with no significant medical history. What's with all these young people getting colon cancers? Anyway, the lump was actually quite big. I'm surprised this guy didn't get a bowel obstruction. Nature of the human body never ceases to amaze me._

_We were able to watch a little bit of the Winter Olympics today in the library, though I didn't see who won because I got paged. Bishop finally farted at around 13:00. Of course, because he's been on TPN all this time, we have to watch his phosphate when we transition him to oral. At least I see a light at the end of this tunnel. Shouldn't be long before that guy's out of here. At least we only spent 20 minutes in his room this am. Where does he get all the questions anyway?  
_

_Dan broke up with his girlfriend. I feel kind of glad that I'm single at the moment, because I'm not sure I can handle that kind of provocation. He's been fucking up his pre-rounds, so of course Speller yelled at him. Still, it's rough. He was really fond of her, and I can't imagine the breakup to have started from his end. Although he seems like such a nice fellow. Maybe he is more demanding at home, but he's a good resident, and I feel really sorry for him._

_It's times like these when I kind of wish I had been interested in anything other than surgery. What would it have been like if I were in psych? I bet I'd have a life. Easy clinic hours in outpatient, and relatively sane inpatient hours. They're all about keeping everyone happy. I can use some of that. Here's some lithium. Want some Prozac? Having no procedures would drive me insane though. They don't even know how to put an IV in. Plus, if I have to talk to that many people and learn about their pet pooches, I might have a psychotic break. I don't care why you're an arse! I just care that you are, and I want you away from me or unconscious. Although I would also have time get laid…. This is so depressing. I don't know how our attendings have kids. They're also up at 3 in the morning, even if they don't come in. Though Mackey divorced at least once, and Adams is in the middle of a divorce. Which really bodes well for my marital future._

_Still, if those OB/Gyn people can get married, shouldn't I be able to get a wife? I mean those guys are like Temper on steroids. You'd think those people would be happier, considering all their patients actually want to be here. Especially that third-year resident, Nancy. Oh my God, she's a terror. The little ones always are. I'm not an obstetrician, and yet she expects me to know all these esoteric facts when I'm just the dumb surgeon. The uterus and the baby in it belong to her. I just fiddle around with the bowels. Murph is nice though. I like him. It's too bad he's graduating this year, because that program sure could use someone like him as a nice buffer. It's actually not that hard to imagine that he has a wife and a one-year-old son. When I grow up, I want to be like him: sane._

_I'll stop here. I really haven't been good about really updating on cases this week, but this week's call was brutal. I hate this service, there are way too many patients and too few residents to disperse. Have to wake up at 2 in the morning again, so calling it a night. —John Watson_

* * *

They drew John's blood at 3. The surgeon came at 4. He did not take the dressing off, but he mashed around John's belly with his hand, checked the drains, and then waltzed off with instructions for John to "open up the lungs". Sherlock looked at the clock and wondered if these hospitals understood the concept of "healing sleep". There was certainly none of that here.

Mrs. Hudson came to visit the next morning, but John was still too queasy to take much advantage of her company. Instead, he spent most of the time lying there, listening to her talk, and occasionally exercising with his incentive spirometry. It looked difficult—he was supposed to inhale as forcefully as he could, and the suction should raise the block to a certain height, but every time it would just twitch a little bit, leaving John exhausted.

"Hate this," John whispered, looking a little green, but he never retched. Small mercies.

Mrs. Hudson took Sherlock down to the cafeteria to get breakfast. It was not the worst cafeteria Sherlock had seen, though he thought it was ironic that a hospital should serve such unhealthy menus to its visitors and staff. They ate in the cafeteria because they did not want the smell to provoke John's nausea.

"How are you doing, dear?" she asked, while Sherlock tried not to rush her—he had no appetite, and was pushing his food around restlessly.

"I'm fine."

"Oh Sherlock," she looked sympathetic and disappointed. "You don't look as happy as I thought you would about this. John looks a bit ill, but at least he's free of the cancer."

His elbow banged the table as he lifted it to cover his forehead. "We're fighting for years, not decades," he said.

"Well he certainly wouldn't live long with _that_ kind of attitude," Mrs. Hudson reproached. "With the way you boys have been running around in London, how did you know that a bullet wouldn't take him out sooner? Besides, he initially had six _months_ , Sherlock. Perhaps not even that long. Years is _many times_ longer, and think of all the mischief you two could manage," she reached out and squeezed his hand with her wrinkled, dry ones. "I know this is overwhelming, Sherlock. I don't like to see him that ill either, but you mustn't lose heart, now. He's fighting, and he's not doing too badly."

John's nausea did ease later that day, and with it, Sherlock's own anxiety. John's spirometry began improving too, and he raised a thumb at Sherlock. "Wind averted," he told him.

Mike Stamford visited in the afternoon, when Mrs. Hudson had gone home.

"You're looking good," said Stamford.

"Better than I felt this morning," John agreed.

Sherlock kept himself out of their conversation, choosing instead to observe Stamford. Stamford was the reason Sherlock even met John, and had in fact deliberately brought the two together. Why the man decided to do this, Sherlock had neer examined before. He figured it was just a whim, but now he wondered if Stamford had been smarter than he let on. That he shared a little bit of John's wisdom, and had recognized how well the two would fit.

Either way, Sherlock would forever be in Stamford's debt.

"What do you think of talking to medical students once you're out?" Stamford asked.

John raised his eyebrows. "I don't know. I'll have to think about it."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, for once not following.

"For lectures," said John, "Mike's asking me to go as a guest speaker. Talk about what it's like to be a patient. Not a bad idea, but I don't know. Teaching kids was never my thing."

"They're good kids, little horrors though they might be," Stamford insisted. "It's early, but I thought I'd ask you now and give you time to ponder. It's in a few months."

The IV machine started beeping obnoxiously. Sherlock caught sight of the words "Occlusion Downstream" before John straightened his elbow with a scowl and the beeping stopped.

John seemed to take that as a cue to start whinging.

"I hate this."

"I know." Mike seemed completely sympathetic.

"I forgot how badly hospitals _smell_. It smells like sweat and vomit and piss. That's one thing I don't miss. I hate this stupid gown—why not just give us a blanket, it functions about as much as a blanket would anyway!"

The two men started laughing. John cut himself off as he winced. "Not good."

Sherlock went to him quickly. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just not a good idea to have any pressure on the abdomen right now."

Stamford started laughing again once he was certain John was alright. "Man, of all people to be here, I didn't expect it to be you, John."

"Me neither."

"Figures that being a patient would be the one thing you would complain about," Stamford chuckled.

"I hate hospitals."

"Everyone does."

They laughed again, John more carefully, sharing something Sherlock could not deduce, because it was obvious and yet completely unknown to him. They were both doctors, had lived a certain life, and while Sherlock could know _of_ it, he could never understand it, because he had never lived that life. He wondered if this was how John felt whenever he and Mycroft were together, communicating at that higher level of awareness, knowing _of_ it but not sharing the insights.

After a few more words, Stamford left. John inhaled through his spirometer. This time, it went up quite high.

"Amazing stuff, Zofran," John smiled.

It was probably not wise, but Sherlock tried the spirometer as well, doing unsurprisingly better than John. John allowed him without comment, the way an older sibling might allow a child to take a toy away.


	4. Chapter Three

The post-op days dragged. They had absolutely nothing to do except wait for John's bowels to wake up. John made an effort to ambulate, but it was slow going because while he denied nausea, he still felt unwell, so he shuffled like an elderly man, Sherlock close by to support him, round and round the hall ways past the nursing stations and the various hospital staff with their pagers and telephones and cells.

He spent most of his time sleeping, too tired to even stare at the television. Sherlock tried to work on his own blog, but he had difficulty concentrating. It was like John's fatigue was infecting his mind. He watched John use the spirometer and sleep and stare at the ceiling and look out in the hall. Sometimes he looked under John's dressings, just for lack of things to do, but the wound looked the same every time; some bits of dried blood near the staples, pale, dry, and intact. The drain kept draining blood, but slowly, and poking around it could be interesting for only so long.

"You're bored out of your mind," John remarked on the fourth day. "You should ask Greg if there's a case."

"I'm not taking any cases."

"You should. There's no reason for you to be cooped up here with me. At least I can focus on being sick. The only interesting thing about this place is the demented old people occasionally screaming out their hallucinations." As if on cue, a female patient down the hall started singing a steady note, vibrato and all, as if she were a prima donna.

_"Ohhhhhhh! Ohhhhhhhhhhhh!"_

_"You're doing great, ma'am. Almost done."_

_"Ohhhhhhhhh!"_

It took a full second for Sherlock to realize that this was her version of screaming in pain. Not demented, but the point was made.

"Oh wow," John blinked. "I forgot some women do that. Why do they do that? Why can't they just scream like normal people? And their voices are always better than mine. Always. Which is what _really_ pisses me off. I'm relaxed and happy in the shower, and I can't get my notes half as good as when these people are getting burned by lidocaine."

"It's because she's not actually in pain, obviously," Sherlock scoffed, "she's just _frightened_." _When did John ever sing in the shower?_ His logic supplied the answer immediately: _when John lived alone. Perhaps as a resident, or later in the army. Before he was shot._

John shrugged, which indicated that he knew as much, despite his questions. "Do you sing when _you're_ frightened, Sherlock?" he teased.

Sherlock threw his flattest stare at John. _Why would you even ask?_

"I can just imagine this," John's face split into a wide, impish grin. "You, getting your tetanus shot, and then Sarah shows up with this giant needle and presses it into your arm. Your eyes widen in horror…your mouth falls open…and then, with your baritone, you go 'Ooooooooooooooo sole mio!'"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. _Baritone? Preposterous._ "What goes on in that mind of yours…"

"I bet you'll sound marvelous," John smiled sweetly, "what with your violin playing and the intonation. How come you've never serenaded with your voice? I've never heard you sing. That's it, Sherlock, I'm putting that on my bucket list. 'Get Sherlock to sing a song'. Something from Schubert's Swan Songs—no, wait, no, Beatles! You're singing the Beatles. God knows I haven't heard a good Beatles song ever since I could still do surgery."

"…Shut up." _What are the Beatles anyway?_

The screaming, or rather, singing, stopped; whatever procedure was being conducted in that room apparently over with. John and Sherlock looked at each other, before turning aside and laughing.

"Seriously," John said a minute later, "I think you're about to go stir-crazy. This is horrible. You should go. It's not like I'm going anywhere."

"Lestrade knows I'm not taking cases."

"He's not going to volunteer, but you can always ask."

"Do you want me to leave?" Sherlock snapped, suddenly irritated.

"That's not what I said."

"Then shut up!"

John's version of shutting up came in the form of taking a nap. Which did make Sherlock feel extremely bored. An hour later, he pestered John to talk to him while everyone else was eating dinner.

"You should eat," John said to Sherlock.

"I'm not hungry."

John looked at him. "Sherlock," he said in that kind voice he used with the sort of weak folk Sherlock never had the patience for. "What's the matter?"

"What do you mean 'what's the matter'?"

"I can tell something's bothering you."

Sherlock glared at him. _What do you think?_

"You've been cooped up here with me, in this sick environment with lots of MRSA and C diff floating around. If you don't get out of here, you _might_ actually become psychotic" John stated. "And I think I'm stable enough that I won't die if you head to the cafeteria to get something to eat."

"The cafeteria is a death trap."

"True. All cafeterias are. Nevertheless, there's no reason for you to suffer here with me," he raised his hand where the needle was taped to his skin. "What are you afraid of?"

_That we are running out of time. That this surgery really does nothing, as you said. That if I leave you even for a moment, that is time lost, time I'll never get back, time I won't learn something about you or be there for you and if I ever learn that I wasn't there when I could have been I will regret it it will be more than I can bear more than I can bear—_

"I'm not _afraid_ of anything," Sherlock spat, hoping that he inserted enough disdain that John would drop the subject.

John took a deep breath and blew it out, as if trying to exhale his irritation.

"This is not okay," he said to Sherlock.

_No. Of course it is not bleeding okay._

"You need to eat. I'm tired of your dumb face. Go get something and when you come back here, I'll give you a case."

Sherlock scowled at the comment about his face, but then frowned, puzzled, at the last remark. "A case?"

"Patient case," John smirked. "Get that detective brain of yours to some basic stretching while you rot in here with me."

"Stretching," Sherlock blinked, dubious.

John shrugged. "It's a new game we can try. Used to love these as a med student, and I remember a fair number of interesting cases during my residency. Not so much my military career, since those tend to be pretty straightforward, but I might be able to think of something from the surgery if you get the hell out of here for a moment."

_What?_ But Sherlock was intrigued. _John,_ giving him a case?

It was enough for him to leave, if only so he could hurry back.

* * *

"Back when we first started to see patients and integrate our lectures into the real world, we use to do these kind of mock patient encounters. I'm the patient, and you're the doctor. I tell you the chief complaint, whether I'm a man or a woman, and how old I am. You can either ask me how I'm supposed to look to you, ask me the questions you'd ask a real patient, and then ask me what my findings are on physical exam. You then tell me your differential, in the order of likelihood, and then what tests you would run to narrow it down."

"…So I'm the doctor, and you're the patient." _What on earth is this?_

"Yes."

Sherlock was lost. It was not a feeling he got often, and definitely not one he liked. "You realize I have not had any medical training."

"You fool around with cadavers and steal my textbooks enough that I think this can work. This way, you can say the sorts of stuff to the patient without getting punched by a real one. Like 'Of course you're short of breath, you refuse to quit smoking like a moron.' Hint hint."

"Nicotine patches, John." _Seriously._

"Cigarette breath, Sherlock. Honestly, for someone who values his senses so much, you don't seem to value your sense of smell and taste, and don't give me lip about how they're not relevant, because I can name at least five cases where your sense of smell led you to the perp, so shut it."

"…" Sherlock had no comeback, because John had a point.

As if taking a cue, John smiled. "I'm a fifty-five-year-old male with abdominal pain."

Sherlock blinked. And blinked again.

"…This is stupid."

"This was a real case. I remember it. A bunch of them. This happens often enough that multiple patients have similar demographics. Think you can figure out what's going on?"

"How am I supposed to figure out what's going on? There are a million things that can cause you abdominal pain."

"What, is the great Sherlock Holmes stumped when literally every doctor in the world starts off at this point?"

"But…I can't work with that!"

"Then ask. What do you need?"

"…"

"It's okay. It's kind of disorienting when a case is presented this way. I'll give you a hint: ask what I look like."

"…This is idiotic."

"Sherlock Holmes is dumber than a med student—which is pretty low, you know, because med students are fucking dumb."

_Ugh._ " _Fine_. What do you look like?"

"I'm a black man, plump, in a gown, wearing only my pants underneath. I'm curled up, looking like I'm really in pain."

"…?"

"Oh Dr. Holmes," John exclaimed in a falsetto, which Sherlock was _certain_ his patient did not use, "my stomach is killing me—" he switched to his normal voice to say: "Stomach is the layman's term for abdomen, by the way—"

"I know that!"

"Just saying. Doctor, please help me!"

_What. The. Hell._ "…This is the most inane thing I've ever seen." _And I've seen some idiotic things._

"Doctor, I don't know what's going on, it started this morning after I ate one of those awful cheeseburgers from McDonalds! This guy actually said that."

"You have gallstones."

"Good thought, but that's not the only thing I might have. You have the funniest 'what the fuck' expression, by the way. I don't think I've ever seen it before."

_That's because this game makes absolutely no sense._ "I don't understand the purpose of this."

"I'm giving you a puzzle."

"You're acting like a buffoon."

"Sherlock, for once in your life, follow my lead! This is part of any physician's training. It teaches you how to think like a doctor. It's how _I_ think. You're always wondering what goes on in the heads around you. This is how _my_ head works."

It was a good point, and despite himself, Sherlock was willing to go along with this, because for the first time since his surgery, John seemed to have energy. Although Sherlock was completely thrown by the current scenario: John, posing as someone who was not _John,_ asking Sherlock to observe without being in the position to see or sense _anything_.

"You have a million possible causes. Narrow it down by asking questions. Go on."

"…Where is his pain, even?"

"It's on both sides and stretches around to my back."

"Both sides of…"

"Upper quadrants."

"And wraps around to your back."

"I can see that mind turning. You're getting it. What are you thinking now?"

Sherlock thought back to all the textbooks he would steal from John to peruse over. A lot of things caused abdominal pain. A lot of things radiated to the back. How was he supposed to select any particular _one_?

"Pancreatitis?" Inflammation of the pancreas could present with pain that traveled to the back. Sherlock thought he had deleted this fact, but perhaps not. He might try to delete it later.

"Acute pancreatitis, good thought. You mentioned gallstones. What else can this be?"

"…I don't know enough to say."

John smirked. "Then ask."

Sherlock blinked.

"Oh and doc, can you give me some Zofran? I've been throwing up everything I eat."

_Pancreatitis can cause nausea along with abdominal pain. But so can gallstones. What else can cause nausea?_ "Gastritis?"

"Stomach inflammation. You bet. What else in the stomach can cause abdominal pain and nausea?"

"In the stomach? Peptic ulcers?"

"Very good. Now, think back to your anatomy. What else is in your abdomen?"

"…your bowels, your liver, your spleen."

John nodded like he was waiting for Sherlock to continue.

"…your bladder." _Though those are lower._

"Good. What else?"

"…your kidneys."

"Uh-huh. You're getting it. You're smarter than a med student." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Retroperitoneum. What else?"

"…those are the only organs."

"Full organs, yes. But there are other structures in your abdomen. Kind of between your abdomen and back."

When John told him the answer, Sherlock wanted to hit himself.

"Of course! The aorta! There's always something! So you're saying an aortic aneurysm can cause this. But abdominal aortic aneurysms shouldn't cause nausea."

"Mmhmm." John's eyes grew keen. "You see, for you, you can't theorize without data, so you collect all the data until you're absolutely sure. You _know_. But in medicine, you can't get data without theorizing first. You do a lot of things in order to acquire data, Sherlock. You lie. You cheat. You even hurt people, even if it's minor. But in medicine, when a patient is sick, you can't be that liberal. If you go ahead without a plan, you subject the patient to unnecessary tests, unnecessary radiation, you cut open things that cause scarring and other sequelae later and you end up making your patient sicker, just to high-five yourself when you get the answer. Not good. So you have to have a theory first. That is our differential. You theorize first, and you consider which of these theories you absolutely _have_ to address: the common ones, and the ones that kill you—ie the ones you don't want to miss. Then you look for your data along those lines to see if something confirms or rules anything out. Once you cannot narrow any further, _then_ you plan tests, until you reach a point where the management would be the same for whatever you have left. Abdominal pain. Can be a million things. Sudden abdominal pain. Probably not cancer, then, although there are exceptions to everything, of course, but cancer would be lower on your differential. Upper abdominal pain—that narrows it down. This is probably not appendicitis. This is probably not cystitis—bladder inflammation. Nausea—this is probably not an abdominal aortic aneurysm, or a triple A. What can it be? Any of the remainder. And you don't always _know_ , for sure, and you have to leave it at that. But if you can afford to, you think about what you must include, what you can spare, and you _always_ think about what would happen if you're _wrong_ , and whether you can afford to be. You know why I'm a good conductor of light for you?"

Sherlock blinked, feeling like he was seeing John's world for the very first time through his eyes. He looked at his friend, who was smiling at him in triumph.

"Because I am the opposite of you," John stated, and pointed from his head to Sherlock's, and winked.

* * *

_5-6-2011 19:24  
_

_Fairly normal day at the surgery, although there was one patient, Julian Moore, that I'm worried about. She presented 3 mo ago with joint pain and fatigue. I thought at first that this might be fibromyalgia, but it didn't fit; she didn't seem like the anxious type, and I think her knees were actually swollen—it's a bit hard to tell because she's a big girl. After 3 months, she's gotten a little better, but something's not right with her. I sent her blood in, and she had a low white count: 3.8, hemoglobin was 12, although she's pre-menopausal so I'm not worried about that (she's 34) and platelets were normal, 156. That white count bothered me though, so I ordered complements and ANA. She had normal complements but a positive ANA titer, so I referred her to Dr. Michel in rheumatology, but other than the ANA, rheumatoid factor, and CRP, nothing else has been positive. She didn't seem rheumatoid to me, and Dr. Michel agreed, but none of her labs have shown what it could be. Some kind of mixed syndrome? We're missing something, I know it, but I can't really do much more on my end because rheum is definitely not my area._

_Sherlock has been silent all day, as far as I can tell. Thinking about something or another, even though we don't have an active case. He's probably talking to me in his head again and ordering me around. It's so weird; he doesn't do this to anyone else. I've never seen him talk to Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson. Should I be flattered? I can't fathom. Some parts of him I feel like I fully understand. I remember during medical school, I hated group-studying because I felt like everyone slowed me down. The more people in a study group, the slower the session gets, because everyone had to be brought up to speed, and there is nothing as frustrating as having to tutor someone who stubbornly cannot get it. It cut into my time, and sometimes I can't afford it. Sherlock is easily a hundred times worse, and I can imagine someone like him never belonged. With a proud brother like Mycroft, no wonder Sherlock is always trying to find his own path. But he's very blind to himself, that Sherlock. Everything he does is reactionary, which is actually a little unexpected, given how much control he exerts over anywhere he's present in, but his personality and character is developed as an answer to other people's perceptions of him. Mycroft is one way, so Sherlock makes himself someone else. Others find him bizarre, so Sherlock makes himself not care. I think he's been getting better with social interaction simply because I'm always expecting better of him, even when he proves me wrong. I guess everyone is a product of their environment, to some degree, but I wonder if Sherlock was aware. He has always been his own weakness, and when it comes to his own person, he is woefully stupid. But then, he's also the type of person who would know this and not care. After all, if a person must have a weakness, what better one than himself?  
_

_I'm repeating myself, but I'm still baffled as to why Sherlock bothers with me at all. He's clearly got his funds to have this flat to himself, and I doubt I do anything he couldn't do on his own. Maybe he just wants company; he is human, after all, no matter what people like Donovan say, but it's so strange to think that he chose me. Some days I wake up and I still feel the loss. I don't know whether I'd be more of a person or less of one, if I were still a surgeon. I was so proud of myself, and perhaps just plain proud. But I had worked so hard. Other military surgeons could return from the battlefield to continue operating in veterans hospitals. Why couldn't I? But I suppose it's just the luck of the draw. Just like I might be one for Sherlock. At least for now._

_I wonder what it says of me, that I'm willing to put up with such ridiculous shit to be friends with a man who likely thinks I'm beneath him. I haven't felt this way, this inferiority, since residency, when there was hope of moving up, but I can never match Sherlock's brilliance and he will probably never respect me as much as he respects himself. To think, I used to despise vapid fans, and here I am, the biggest fan-boy of Sherlock Holmes, willing to bend backwards for this idiot until I kill myself for him. Not like I haven't come close many times already. I'm like the Sancho Panza to his Don Quijote. The world has never seen a bigger cretin than John Watson._

_I hear him calling. Wonder if Lestrade had called him. Hopefully we get back in time for me to catch a full 8 hours. God, I can't believe I use to sleep an average of 3. That's one part of the army I don't miss. —John Watson_

* * *

The next day, John swooned while ambulating. Sherlock caught him, stunned and dismayed. John's body was light; he was missing some organs, after all, but he folded to Sherlock like a frail sheet of paper, all skinny limbs. John woke a minute later, alert and oriented but nauseated, and he vomited for the first time.

The nurses were kind, and the surgeon came to see him again, rubbing his nape in a camaraderie Sherlock could not share.

"You can't go bench pressing with the orthopedicians just yet, Doctor."

"Pfft. I was hobbling while leaning on my mate."

"I know, but just take it easy, because when your blood pressure goes down, my blood pressure goes up, and you know that doesn't balance out."

"God, my patients never passed out."

"I don't believe that. Some of them had to have passed out."

"Yeah, but none of them were in the fucking army."

"Come now, Dr. Watson," the surgeon remonstrated, "you know it doesn't work like that. You know that. This is not a sign of weakness. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Besides, we've all fainted over less. How many times have you passed out just because you skipped lunch?"

Sherlock looked at John.

John grinned. "Oh God, I mean, not that often, but every time I passed out I fell backwards, and since I was always on a footstool, I would hit the back of my head and wake up with a giant bump at the back."

_John has passed out before?_

"Fuck," said the surgeon, shaking his head, "What use is being short if you're going to smack the floor from the same distance anyway?"

"I know, right?"

The other laughed. "You're okay, Dr. Watson."

After he left, John explained, "Pretty much all surgeons pass out in the OR a few times. Prolonged fasting and being on your feet for that long. I was just glad I never fell _into_ the patient. Sterile field." He winced at the thought.

Sherlock tried to imagine a younger John Watson, on his feet since hours before dawn and starving for so long that he would faint while operating. Strangely, his mind made a leap towards being glad that John got shot, because he doubted John ever passed out at the surgery.

John was still thinking about what the surgeon said, and was chuckling to himself. "Man, I think I passed out three times when I was a resident, and actually once in the army. It happened when I was sick. Ian held the record when I was a resident; he passed out four times. We did tease him about being weak, but my med students have passed out, my interns. Man, and every time I had to complete the fall. One of my med students fell on top of the circulator once, so she never hit anything. She could have stuck around, technically, but we sent her to get food. I wished someone would send me to get food, back then. Wished we could snack in the OR. Although I wasn't always hungry when I was operating on someone. Having something to do helps you forget that your legs are aching and you have not eaten breakfast and it's fifteen hundred in the afternoon already."

"Ridiculous, all of you," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You're the one to talk, Mr. Everything-Else-Is-Transport."

Sherlock did not reply, because John's transport was trying to kill him, and he suddenly wondered if John could have avoided all of this if he took better care of himself during his youth. It was a nonsensical thought; he knew logically that plenty of surgeons had gone through the ordeals and never had to deal with cancer.

But the thought led to other what-ifs: what if John had been hurt because of something Sherlock had brought back from the lab? He was always complaining about how the kitchen was unhygienic, that Sherlock would place formaldehyde-soaked eyeballs next to the milk. Formaldehyde was a carcinogen. What if Sherlock had given John cancer?

"Hey," John murmured, "what are you thinking about?"

_It is too late now, and might be besides the point,_ Sherlock looked back at his _friend-colleague-partner-brother-heart_.

"Nothing."

* * *

_9-4-2003, 2:05  
_

_Today was hectic. Nora had a massive headache in the middle of one operation, so she's been a bit slow about following my orders. I yelled at her and probably stressed her out, but then I'm stressed out, and I think I've done worse to her. I apologized later, but if I wake up to a slit throat though, I'd know why._

_Had a lot of emergent cases today. Medics just kept bringing them in. Some days it seems endless, and today it's one of those days. There's nothing like saving a man's life when he was on the brink of death, but today feels like I'm just scrubbing in just to watch people die on the table. Why am I even bothering? And this business in Afghanistan is full of shit. So full of shit. If I weren't saving the lives of men who were good on the inside and just forced to do stupid shit by the fuckers up above, I'd find some way out of this bleeding contract. And I can't even complain to the others, because you don't badmouth your bosses. But I wish we could, because I'm a fucking doctor and I didn't exactly get this degree in order to just receive orders. Now these poor kids are dead, and what did they die for? But I can't say it out loud, and I'll have to be satisfied with saying it here, where no one will know. This is absurd. Why did I join the army, where the government treats us like shit they can just discard when it's convenient? I'm mental. We're all mental. And to think, I was already doubly cracked considering I decided to go to medical school and surgery. And then army. God, I'm triply cracked. Triple whammy. We're all fucked._

_Though the day did end on a calmer note, at least. It started off with bowel perfs and aortic ruptures, so we couldn't talk about anything other than the case. I was fast though! I found one bowel laceration in 3 minutes. I just randomly suctioned the shit and it popped up to say hi to me. That was fantastic. After that, I was on fire. Although one lac was a nightmare. 22-yo Jeremy Harvey. He had a giant load of adhesions! He had a lap appy apparently, and I'm surprised he didn't have a bowel obstruction yet, because those scars were all over the place, waiting to squeeze those intestines. This is why people should not preemptively remove their appendix. But the end of the day was pretty calm; last five patients were hemodynamically stable, so their ex-laps were relatively relaxed.  
_

_Several people got crushed by falling debris as I was signing off. I don't think any amount of saline's going to save them, because there is no way their muscles didn't just explode. Their going to flood their kidneys like a motherfucker, and I really hope that when that happens, I'm not on call again. Knowing my luck, that's going to happen right as I wake up. Scott owes me a good joke if that happens.  
_

_Damn, I think we're getting shot at. I hear things and hearing things is not good. Need to take a look. —John Watson_

_2:15_

_We were getting shot at, but they took care of it. No one got hurt. Which wouldn't matter to me anyway, because I'm not on call._

_Let me see, who did I operate on today? Well, during the day, which is more like yesterday. Warren Lay was my first case; 23 yo M who had the nicest ginger curls; he's one of the rare gingers whose hair is actually red as opposed to whatever orange-brown hue normal gingers have. And he has an awesome last name; best of luck to that fellow. (Oh yeah! I went there!) Bowel perf, but stabilized, and was hanging out by the time I signed off._

_Joel Burns, 21 yo M, aortic rupture; he was pretty much destined to die by the time they brought him to the base, exsanguinated on the table and I barely cut into him. Man, I was just like 'whatever' and moved on to Sam Danvers. What does that say about me? Though at this point in my career, I can tell when something's a lost cause. Fucking aortas. You don't mess with that shit. But Danvers was the one where I found the lac in 3 minutes; we barely had to suction any of the shit before I found it. He was also 21, I think. Brain is kind of slowing._

_Mike Houston had a pneumo, did a needle thoracostomy on him before putting a chest tube in. That one was pretty easy too. And then Harvey, with all the adhesions; I think he should be discharged because I have a feeling those adhesions will return with a vengeance._

__Hugh James, 22 yo, aortic rupture and died even before we moved him to the table. I made myself work on him for 10 minutes but he wasn't resuscitable._ I could have done fuck about that. The last few were all ex-laps; Henry Smith, 19 yo M with sickle cell trait, had problems pissing at one point and I kind of wonder why he's here. Afghanistan's not really the setting if you can't concentrate your pee. I'm just a dumb doc though, and I guess comfort's not really high on the agenda when you're sending your underlings to their deaths. Anyway, Smith was an ex-lap, and we found a mild abdominal bleed, no perforations, so he's sitting down there now._

_Fred Darcy, 20 yo M with Gilbert's, I don't know what he's doing here either, I feel like the army should have screened him out. I mean, Gilbert's is pretty asymptomatic, but Afghanistan's not exactly low-stress. I guess he just has to look a little jaundiced for a while, though. Maybe he thinks he'd look hip. Yellow is the new Black. Wait, that totally sounded less racist when it was just in my head. Damn it, I wrote this with pen…oh well, no one's looking in this journal, anyhow. I'm taking this as my cue to go the fuck to sleep. Hopefully I don't mess up in front of the nurses come morning. You don't mess with nurses! —John Watson_

* * *

The day John passed gas was more exciting than it should have been. The incident itself had gone by unnoticed by Sherlock, and he only learned of it when John announced it to his surgeon.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He exclaimed, dismayed that he had missed what was a milestone in post-operation patients.

John gave him a look like he had lost his mind. "…What? Why…? It's a fart. I'm not going to…" he burst into laughter. "Sherlock, you are the most absurd lunatic to ever grace this planet."

"But if you passed gas, that means we can go home."

"They need to make sure I can tolerate PO first."

Tolerating PO, _per os_ , meaning "by mouth", turned out to be a slow drag of testing water and ice, before moving up to clear liquids.

"There's research that says this is unnecessary," John told Sherlock, "and that I should just eat whatever I want without going through this gradation, but doctors tend toward tradition pretty often, and it's harmless in the long run."

Sherlock disagreed, because instead of being able to arrive home at 221B by noon, the whole process swept them past breakfast (where John had water) and lunch (where John had clears). He spent that time texting Mycroft irritably about the trying ordeal, texting Lestrade about John's impending discharge, while John hobbled like an old man, watched crap telly, and slept like the world's most boring patient. They did another case, where John pretended he was a thirty-year-old woman who turned out to have scleroderma _sine_ scleroderma, or "scleroderma without scleroderma" (what the hell?) and medicine, as Sherlock was starting to realize, is as unpredictable as Moriarty.

Then finally, _finally_ , they got the discharge paperwork. Sherlock was so eager to leave, he dressed John for John. John, because he had always possessed the patience of a saint where Sherlock was concerned, allowed this with no argument. He might have sensed Sherlock's need to be useful, to do something for him, bless the man. In fact, considering John's independence and sense of pride and virtue, he was being very accommodating to everyone involved, nothing at all like the sort of patients doctors were notorious for being.

Mycroft came in person to escort the two home. In the black car, the fat git had the decency to keep his trap shut. He did offer to help John out of the car like a pompous idiot, but Sherlock took care of that easily, without even needing to glare. Though John murmured his gratitude, perhaps forgetting that Mycroft never did anything without an ulterior motive. Thankfully, he departed before Sherlock helped John climb the stairs, though this time John protested that he could manage them.

They opened the door to 221B to find the room full of flowers.

John gaped, eyes sweeping through the well-wishes, the baskets, the laces around the green stems. The room was actually covered; the floors were completely obscured, and there was overflow up to the tables and even the couch and chairs. On the kitchen counter, roses and carnations bloomed next to Sherlock's mold and yeast. One large handwriting read: _Dear Dr. Watson: Hope you get well soon! We would be lost without you to blog all of your adventures!_ Another was clearly from a patient, stating: _Doc, We need you. Hope you're out of the hospital quick! Missing you in the meantime!_

It was not like John to care for the feelings of strangers, but next to Sherlock, standing at the doorway to their home, the doctor was noticeably moved.

"Well," he said, looking at Sherlock, eyes moist. "I guess I should update my blog, asap."

Sherlock looked back at the room. "I'm using all of these for my experiments."


	5. Chapter Four

The week after John's discharge was fraught with hope and optimism.

Sherlock checked John's wound every day. John was perfectly capable of checking it himself, but he allowed Sherlock this act of intimacy, like an elder to a junior. The wound healed slowly, but John seemed unconcerned, despite how sore he felt.

Sherlock monitored John's medications and meals; Mrs. Hudson cooked light, mild bits for them every day, even though Angelo delivered similar meals to the apartment as a token of support, and it was difficult to gauge who was better at making their dishes tasty while being gentle on the stomach. John had lost some weight during his hospital stay, but he was unable to stomach much, even with the pancreatic enzymes he kept swallowing for his meals. Still, he was in good spirits, and some food was better than no food.

Molly stopped by, presenting to Sherlock (without being asked beforehand) John's frozen pancreas with one fat node, gall bladder, stomach antrum, and a short length of duodenum. John regarded the specimens with horror, while Sherlock thought that if he ever decided to marry a person instead of his work, Molly would not, in fact, be a bad choice. Lestrade came by later to find Sherlock at the microscope, looking at cross-sections of John's normal stomach. He had tried looking at the carcinoma, but found the image of tumor stroma cutting through the slide to be disturbing, even if the tumor was now outside John's body.

John wasted time replying to all of his well-wishers, even as more flowers arrived. He was never much of an attention seeker, nor was he the type to want others to care for him, so it was strange how happy John seemed, sniffing at the flowers like a vapid girl, writing back to people he did not know, posting about himself (for once) on his blog and responding to the comments.

So the days passed.

Sherlock should have noticed something, anything, but he was so eager for things to return to normal that anything resembling a return to the hospital seemed inconceivable.

But on the seventh night, John requested Sherlock take his temperature.

**_38.4 C_ **

"I need to go to the ER," John told him.

He had been feeling off, he said, though he attributed it to the normal misery of patients who just had some of their internal organs taken out. Loose stools, he said, and even frank diarrhea, were rather expected when someone's pancreas was chopped in half. A little bit of nausea and abdominal pain were not completely unexpected either, even if they were not preferred.

"The smell, though," he murmured, as an old, barely oriented lady screamed while the emergency medicine doctors tried to shove a nasogastric tube down her nose. "The nurses have a better sense for these kind of things, but it smelled like C. diff."

* * *

 _Clostridium difficile_ , a pathogen that would normally have been extinguished in the normal bowel with no consequence whatsoever to the host, was a diarrhea-inducing bacteria that liked to flourish in patients that had recently been on antibiotics, because the antibiotics eradicate the normal bowel flora that produce nutrients for humans, like Vitamin K, and also prevented other, more dangerous germs, such as C. diff, from taking over.

They could also spread from someone else with C. diff.

"Sherlock, don't worry about it," John sighed, "Please don't torture the house staff because you think they infected me with this. Let me tell you, we had gowns and we wash our hands and even then I can't even be sure that _I_ never spread C. diff to patients. It's the luck of the draw in the end, despite all precautions. For all I know, this episode came from my own. So please calm yourself and don't traumatize the people I'm depending on to take care of me."

"We were out for _one_ _week_ ," Sherlock exclaimed with gritted teeth. "We couldn't stay away for _one_ _week_."

"We still have the adjuvant chemotherapy to go through, Sherlock," John pointed out, meaning that they were always going to come back. "I still have to place the port."

"I am sick of this place."

"Then go. You don't need to be here. I don't want to give you C. diff."

"I'm sick of _you_ being stuck in this place."

John looked at him, as if waiting for something. When Sherlock just stared blankly back, the doctor sighed again.

"Sherlock, this was _your_ idea," he told him.

And Sherlock had said he would fight, every step of the way, with John.

"I know," Sherlock said somberly.

But he was already sick of it, of this setback. Even though it was just one, so far, and John had been doing well otherwise, it tightened his nerves and made panic flash in the back of his skull. He just wanted John to be normal, even if that was 75 percent of his usual normal, but John still winced when he ambulated and still held his belly like he had upset stomach all the time and now he was back at the hospital with pseudomembranous colitis.

"They're just going to give me a course of Flagyl and I'll be fine. It's a shite diarrhea, but there's no such thing as a diarrhea that's not full of it. You see what I did there? Okay, I admit, that one was old since like three hundred years ago, but there's no such thing as a good medical pun."

"…You're an idiot."

"Yes I am, and you'll be hearing more of those."

"Oh for the love of God."

"Reminds me of that time when we had that cholera outbreak at the base. Oh my god, what a nightmare. We ran out of prepped IV's and had to make lactate ringer's from scratch, and we had to improvise because we couldn't put the fluids in an IV bag—we had no empty IV bags. I was terrified that I was going to get it; boiled water and drank it hot. We had this paranoia that the vibrio would float in the air and contaminate the water if we let it cool for too long. It was utter nonsense, but being a doctor makes you lose a few marbles."

"Evidently."

John was admitted by the same surgeon, who had his shower cap and boot covers on as he marched into the ward.

"So much for smooth sailing, eh, Doctor?"

"Doctor," John smiled, though it was rather pale.

"You never had C. diff before, correct?"

"Correct."

"Rotten stuff. How's the pain doing?"

"I'd say it's pretty well-controlled."

"Feeling fine otherwise? Before the C. diff started?"

"Can't complain." Sherlock rolled his eyes at this, but did not interject.

"Great. Let's get you started."

Mike Stamford dropped by after John got settled.

"You don't do anything by halves, do you, _Dr. Watson?_ " His ghastly gown, meant for enteric and MRSA precautions, kept flipping down because he wanted to skip tying it around his neck. He finally gave in and reached around to fasten it.

"Having narcotics on board with C. diff is probably the best way to go," John said cheerfully.

"It probably is," the other laughed. He turned and clapped a gloved hand on Sherlock's gowned shoulder. Sherlock figured he would allow him to get away with it. "And how are you doing?"

"Peachy."

"He's been doing great," said John, and the smile he gave Sherlock was such that Sherlock had to turn away, cheeks warming. John's countenance had been full of praise, and his praise always warmed the heart. "I'm so proud of him."

"I'd say!" Stamford joked. "I can't imagine it's been easy."

"He's been _shockingly_ considerate," John chuckled, which provoked a scowl from Sherlock. He was not _that_ selfish! But the moment passed without much pomp, and the two doctors shared horror stories of patients with C. diff, with John retelling the cholera outbreak in Afghanistan and Stamford offering to bring John all the bananas he could ever want, an allusion to something related to potassium repletion, Sherlock was sure, but neither doctor felt it necessary to elaborate, too busy laughing at each other.

At long length, Stamford had to get back to work, and as he parted he squeezed Sherlock's shoulder.

"You're good," he said, before leaving.

John turned the volume up on the telly.

* * *

Fortunately, the episode of febrile colitis passed with minimal fanfare, and soon John was discharged, his sutures also removed. Sherlock was just happy that he no longer had to wear those stupid gowns. This hospital stay saw none of Mycroft, fortunately, though the elder Holmes did inquire after John via text. Sherlock told him to shove off, as usual.

Sarah did visit, giving John a wry expression. John cheerfully told her that he felt no abdominal pains from the colitis.

"Because you're on painkillers for your Whipple."

John made a silly face at her. "Silver linings, silver linings."

There were more flowers at Baker Street. Sherlock, having grown bored of experimenting with flowers by now, ignored them, leaving John and Mrs. Hudson to dispose of them as they would. Other physicians from John's surgery came by, but they left after only half an hour.

Things settled down again.

One week later, Sherlock accepted a case from Lestrade. John followed, though he warned that he would be doing no chasing, which was about what Sherlock expected. The man was still a little slow, even when walking, and the wound still had to close. Part of Sherlock wondered if it was even wise for John to be out, but he was not going to reject more time with him.

"You've lost weight," Lestrade observed, pointing at John's waistline. "Everything alright?"

"Well, between the malabsorption and the colitis," John pointed out, unconcerned.

"Take it easy, yeah?" Lestrade said without missing a beat, directing Sherlock toward the body. A doctor, a urologist, actually, still in surgical scrubs. John followed, but he leaned on his cane heavily, fully intent on doing what Lestrade suggested.

 _"Maybe it's revenge for cutting someone's…off,_ " the forensic workers cheeped around Sherlock as he knelt down. The doctor was a fat man, enough that his belly had red stretch marks. He crouched down and picked up a hand to look at the nails, but noticed that the man's wrists were actually slender. Actually, his arms and legs were all rather thin.

 _Cushing's syndrome._ Sherlock looked at the moon face. The man might have been rather fit and handsome, but the steroids altered him. Strangely, Sherlock felt a surge of pity. Dimwits would have assumed that this man's obesity stemmed from lack of self-control, when it was really just an unfortunate part of his illness. Whatever the illness was—it could be his own steroids, or an exogenous source meant to treat something else.

Lestrade squatted down next to him as he searched the pockets, chewing on his gum. "Any ideas?"

"Jesus," John exclaimed from the back, "That's some Cushing's there."

John would normally have recognized this sooner, but he might have been slower today because he was further away. "John, what do you see?" Sherlock asked.

"A urologist with Cushing's," John was still murmuring. "Wonder why." He stepped closer as if to inspect, but stopped and leaned heavily on his cane. "Okay, I can't squat."

"Are you sure you should be here?" Lestrade asked; something which he really ought to have asked earlier, instead of that inane comment about John's weight.

Sherlock waited for John's reassurance, but the doctor was silent for a while, before admitting, "I was, but I'm having second thoughts."

Like one of those chemical reactions that changed colors with pH, John's skin paled to a sickly grey. Sherlock was at his side in an instant.

"What's wrong?"

"Don't feel so good."

"Do you need to sit down?" Lestrade asked.

They sat John down on the curb. John leaned heavily to Sherlock's lap, since he did not want to curl his abdomen.

"What's wrong?" Lestrade echoed Sherlock's earlier question.

"Fuck," said John, "it's nothing serious. I think it's just a vagal reaction."

"To what?" Sherlock was baffled.

"I don't know. I think I exerted myself too much."

"But we didn't do anything; we were in a cab, and then you were just standing for about ten minutes."

John did not respond. He looked rather pissed off, which Sherlock could understand.

"Maybe you should take him home," Lestrade said to the detective.

Sherlock glanced at the dead urologist for only a second before helping John stand. A dead sick doctor or a living sick doctor—there was no question who was less important.

* * *

John left his phone in the living room, which was why Sherlock was able to catch Harry's text before it reached her brother.

_Hey Johnny, can I brow thee hundred ponds?_

There was no follow-up text, to explain or clarify. Autocorrect hid most of the typos, but Harriet Watson was clearly drunk. Sherlock felt rage coil in his chest.

_John won't be giving you anything. Stay away from him. -SH_

How a man like John could possess such a pathetic excuse of a sister—Sherlock tried to imagine John going through this if they had never met, and shuddered.

A long time later, Harry sent: _Shetland go away I want talk my brother._

Sherlock deleted the messages before scrolling upwards to look at the past log. _Johnny can burrow some Monet? Joggy I need a favour. John do yo have spree hound pounds?_ And John's tired responses; _Harry what did you do now? Harry, you're drunk, text me when you're sober. Harry why do you need that?_

He blocked Harry, and just barely managed not to throw the cell phone into the wall. It was John's phone, not Harry's.

He _hated_ her, despite never having met her. Now he really wanted to, if only to rearrange her face. Make it so that she can never drink again. It did not matter that gentlemen never laid hands on ladies. Sherlock was no gentleman, and Harry no lady. He thought of how a message from her never failed to wipe the smile from John's face, like a cloud covering the sun. How he never talked about his sister, and just the thought of her would stiffen his lips to a thin, grim line. How he could not bear to live with her, even when he had nowhere else to live. How she had abandoned him when he found out he was sick, and never even visited him.

He would like to cut her from John, like John's sick tumor, with its dark nuclei and ambiguous cell shapes, inserting into the normal architecture like mold on bread. Without her chaining John to the ground, who knew where the doctor could have gone, what heights he might have reached. Without her anchoring John in the depths, John could fly. Fly forever, and never come down.

Not unlike how Sherlock felt about Mycroft, but even Mycroft did not inspire such revulsion. As annoying as it was, at least Mycroft cared, and Sherlock had respect for Mycroft's intelligence, even if he was a fat pig. Harriet Watson was a self-pitying little wretch, who cared about herself more than she cared about anyone else. It was sickening, and all of the sudden Sherlock found himself imagining all the things he could do to that female dog. He had seen enough to be inspired, after all, and was apathetic enough to want to try some.

But Harry was part of John, no matter her uncountable flaws, and hurting her would mean hurting John.

Curling his lip in distaste, Sherlock composed a new message on his own phone.

_This is Sherlock, your brother's flatmate. I will meet you and give you what you want, if you would stop harassing John. -SH_

Harry's inebriation clearly did not prevent her from seeking out sources of funding.

_Can meet today?_

* * *

Harry Watson was actually taller than her brother, a bony woman with thin, gnarly limbs and a thick trunk, typical of smokers. She wore heavy makeup, especially around the eyes, to hide their sunken dimness and confuse them for sultriness. Her clothes were of cheap, synthetic material, such that the shine, the contour, all fell around her wrong, and she wore thick perfume to hide the stench of alcohol. Intricate tattoos peeked out from beneath her long sleeves as she smoked another cigarette, perched on her high stilettos. She stood at the corner of the street outside a coffee shop as he went up. Around them, snow was drifting.

Sherlock exhaled, his breath fogging in front of his face. In terms of features, he could see some similarities under all that powder and kohl, but John had always seemed clean, solid, whereas his sister looked filthy and decrepit. Seeing her made him realize how he once looked to Mycroft, and his distaste only grew.

"Sherlock Holmes," Harry greeted, rather articulate, though her eyes had the vapid gleam of someone with a lobotomy. "Pleasure meeting you."

She was actually more sober than drunk at this point. The smell of alcohol simply permeated her clothes, and the stupid look in her eyes was probably from how it had shriveled with chronic toxins. Sherlock idly wondered at the state of her liver.

"You need three hundred pounds."

"Five hundred, now that you mention it."

Sherlock stared. "Tell you what. I'll pay you one thousand pounds if you promise never to contact John ever again. For anything."

Her eyes literally crossed at this. "A thousand?"

A thousand pounds for free to buy her brother from her. Harry would likely spend it all by the end of the week, and it was hardly a drop in the bucket for Sherlock's bank account.

"You break your promise, Harriet Watson," Sherlock told her, "And I will have you in a cell for the rest of your life."

It was not an empty threat.

Harry looked longingly at him. "Do you have it now?"

* * *

_You need to calm down. -MH  
_

Sherlock did not slow his pace, though he looked up to snarl at one of the CCTV cameras. He then typed furiously, still walking.

_If John had never met me he would have been stuck with his shite sister during this time. -SH_

Mycroft replied, _You have paid her off, and with luck she is gone for good. If you get yourself killed, then John would be stuck with her anyway. -MH_

The words did nothing to soothe his rage.

 _How does someone so utterly useless spawn from the same place as someone like John?_ He was so furious that he forgot to sign before sending it. As well as the others that followed.

_She did not even hesitate._

_Her own brother, who has cancer.  
_

_To her, John was worth only a thousand pounds. Perhaps less._

_I hope she suffers._

_I hope she gets pancreatic cancer herself._

_I hope she gets a cancer that doesn't kill her but makes her scream in pain 24 7_

Mycroft's answer was simple and, for once, not aggravating in the least.

_I know. Me too. -MH_

All at once, Sherlock felt closer to his brother than he had in years. Mycroft always behaved like he thought Sherlock was inferior. He suffered no illusions that he was a good man, but he always seemed to think that he was a better man than Sherlock, all because he liked sweets and could not be bothered to get off his fat derriere, browsing through paperwork and commanding others to do the actual jobs for him. Now though, neither of them were good men. They were both equally low, without any of the righteous forgiveness nonsense that dull people were all enamored by. Not to mention, Mycroft admitted to more than the darkness in his own character—he would never have confessed to a sentiment like wrath unless John had been important to him too.

And with this new sensation of brotherhood, Sherlock typed in another text, this time signing it properly.

_Keep an eye on her, will you? -SH_

Mycroft's reply was wonderfully dry.

_Really now, Sherlock. Don't tell me the lady Watson sucked away your intelligence at that meeting._ _-MH_

Sometimes, very rarely, in fact it may be once in a lifetime—it was good to have an older brother who was also the British Government.

* * *

"Next Thursday sounds good," John was saying when Sherlock returned home.

Based on the soft smile on John's face, the caller was very likely Stamford, and the date the day John was to meet all the medical students.

"I definitely slept through the latter half of all the visiting guests. Yeah, because they just sit there and talk. The neuro ones were good though, they actually got to show stuff, but that ovarian cancer one just talked about her chemo. Uh-huh. Yeah because you can't feel a fluid wave from the audience. No, I don't think I've ever skipped. Not really. No. Because the hospital's totally different; you're not just talking to one person and hearing their feelings, you're talking to fourteen people and they're all pissed off about being there. Having grand rounds did not prepare me _at all_. Yeah, I know. Logistics. And it would be good to see young faces again. Hahaha," John broke off into laughter.

When he ended the call, he told Sherlock everything he knew already.

"Going over to St. Bart's for Grand Rounds next Thursday, I get to talk to a bunch of second-year med students about what it's like to be a patient with pancreatic cancer. You can stay at home, if you want, though the students would be very disappointed."

"Pfft," Sherlock barely managed not to roll his eyes.

John laughed.

"What are you going to do at this Grand Rounds?" Sherlock asked. "Nothing too exerting?"

"No, I'll just sit there and talk, answer questions. If I had some other illness, they might do a physical exam on me before the students, but at most I think they'll just ask me to lift my shirt." John grinned. "For the ladies and the odd gent. It's really a nice way to fit an illness to a person. The kids learn about the diseases from textbooks and google, but there's no person to any of the illnesses. This is to get them to understand the patient perspective, since doctors have to deal with the human in addition to the disease," he laughed at Sherlock's expression, "and would totally not be up your alley. So, as I said, you can stay at home."

"And disappoint all of Stamford's students?"

"I'm sure they'll live."

"Do you want me to stay away?"

"Oh dear," John exclaimed, "I'm not so sure. I think it would be a good experience to share with you. It's about time I'm the star and you're the sidekick. On the other hand, have I mentioned that med students are _really dumb?_ "

"Most people are."

"No, you don't understand. Grand Rounds like this are sort of a confessional; people are encouraged to really delve into your business, because doctors don't observe the usual social boundaries. Come to think of it, you don't either, but," John snorted to himself, "Even you don't make a point of feeling other men's bullocks for your line of work. At least, I haven't observed that." He looked alarmed for a moment. "Don't confirm or deny. I don't want to know."

This time, Sherlock did roll his eyes.

"That aside, we do ask more invasive questions than is usually polite, like how many people have you had sex with, do you use protection, was it oral or anal or vaginal sex, because these can explain why someone's anal warts showed up on your mouth. I mean, we have to ask, even if we're ninety-nine percent sure. Don't give me that look. Anyway, the training starts early, with these grand rounds, but sometimes these students just take the whole filter off. They haven't gone to the wards yet, and haven't practiced how to talk to patients, so certain questions that can be phrased better…aren't. And then there are some cases where you wonder what the student hopes to gain from the answer. Like that one time we were talking to a young patient with uncontrolled seizures, and he had mental retardation as well—you know, epilepsy and frying your brain. Literally. The mother was doing a lot of the talking, since she knew her son's history pretty well, and since the point is to understand the patient's life, we asked some reasonable questions like, 'was it hard to fit in, did people treat you strangely, did people treat you differently from other people without epilepsy'—although I remember the idiot had phrased it 'did people treat you differently from _normal_ people'—but still, pretty innocent intentions, despite the sloppy wording. 'Did you feel you had fewer opportunities than others, what was it like right after a seizure, what do you do to prevent accidents, et cetera' and this one student, after asking all of that, including 'did people give your son a hard time for having epilepsy', to which the mother had said 'no', goes: 'So some people think that having epilepsy is the mark of the devil.'"

Sherlock blinked. "…And?"

John nodded, "And she left it at that for a good five seconds before saying, 'what did you think?' This, here, my future colleague. Probably my current colleague. I never did figure out who asked that question."

That was ridiculous. Of course epilepsy was not the mark of some 'devil', because 'devils' did not exist. What kind of idiot would do anything other than dismiss this complete nonsense? "She's a moron. Why would epilepsy be related to some fictional creature?"

John gave him a look, before stating, "I just realized that you would be one of these stupid med students I was talking about."

"What?" Sherlock exclaimed, aghast.

"Not with this question," John amended, "Just…I was talking about tact. Which I just remembered that you don't have. Come to think of it, you would probably be perfectly fine with all of the dumbest questions that are asked. And not alright with some of the reasonable ones, because you expect people to know everything. Got it. Never mind."

* * *

At ten-o-clock in the morning on the following Thursday, Sherlock accompanied John to St. Bart's, where they had to look around for the lecture hall. The students were still having lectures, and John was not due until eleven, so they met up with Stamford outside, Stamford drinking an iced coffee, while John downed hot tea, because he had a bit of stomach upset. Or at least the remaining two-thirds of his stomach was upset.

A different oncologist who specialized in pancreatic cancers also greeted them. He introduced himself as Dr. Something and informed John that he would be conducting the interview. John's own oncologist had shared his information with the professor for the purposes of teaching, so he confirmed with John about his initial presentation, the C diff, and the impending chemotherapy, and the fact that John no longer had his drain, but did not have his chemo port put in yet, before moving on to bits about John himself; he was a doctor, he worked with Sherlock Holmes, was experienced with being a patient by virtue of having been shot. Sherlock thought he liked this doctor more than that other one. Especially since she resembled Sally _Donovan._ Ugh.

"You went traipsing after Mr. Holmes not a month after your operation?"

"Ugh, not you too."

"No, seriously, doctor to doctor—"

"I _know,_ I know, it wasn't the smartest move but I was getting really sick of being in the house and I didn't think that watching Sherlock work was going to be such a strenuous activity."

"These are vital organs you're missing here!"

"I know…"

"You're lucky you didn't fall and hit your head."

"Pfft. I wish I could fall and hit my head, Should be quick and relatively painless."

"Oh don't say that. If you really wanted it that way, you wouldn't have gone through the Whipple."

"True."

Lecture broke, with students streaming out for the toilets. A bunch of them were wearing white coats. Dr. Something and Stamford led John and Sherlock into the lecture hall, where they were met with an audience of white.

"Oh right, I remember this!" John exclaimed.

"What?" Sherlock blinked.

"I use to hate this. Bad sign, back then, hating to have to put on your white coat."

"Ha!" Stamford laughed.

Sherlock could connect the dots. It seemed that usually the med students did not wear their white coats to lecture, unless there was a patient guest. Interesting.

"This is an even greater flashback than the lab," John murmured, "Partially because back then, the lab was a bit different in my day."

"Some things never change," Stamford commented.

Dr. Something was loading the powerpoint, sifting through the slides. Sherlock caught the image of a CT scan—John's pulmonary embolism, a small white blob on the right middle lobe. There was an image of the abdominal CT, but Sherlock did not know how to read that. He did notice that the liver was on the left. There were the initial PET scans, which glowed around John's pancreas. Some illustrations and photos of the Whipple procedure, though obviously source files.

"Be nice," John reminded Sherlock. "They're dumb, but I was back then too."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You let me know when you get tired."

It was John's turn to roll his eyes. "Yes, _Mum._ "

Sherlock sniffed. And then the students streamed back. Sherlock took a seat in the front row of the audience, and John went to sit in the chair assigned to him.

Time to begin.

From across the distance, John looked really small. He had always been such a solid man, a solid presence, earthy and grounded where Sherlock was flighty and fleeting. It was odd to see him so frail, even outside the hospital, wearing his usual jumpers that were now rather loose on him.

Stamford stood at the podium.

"Just wanted to make an announcement about the exam review," he told everyone while the din was dimming down, "we got kicked out of our usual room so we are going to move to another. I'll send out an email once we know. Okay. I'd like to introduce everyone to a great friend of mine, Dr. John Watson." Silence washed over the audience at last, barring a few clicks of the laptops closing and seats squeaking as the students shifted. "He and I were classmates back at uni, and we've gone through a lot together—"

"Like anatomy," John broke in, incurring a round of laughter.

"John later became a surgeon, and did his residency here, was a houseman for a few years before going off to the army. So all you military folks," he pointed to the audience, while a few students cheered, "you can talk to him afterwards about the experience."You probably know him better as the blogger for Sherlock Holmes, who is also here today; Sherlock, do you mind giving a wave?"

Sherlock stood instead, looking back, as the students suddenly cheered again, this time louder and for a longer time. It was awkward, and he was anxious for everyone to just shut up and get on with things so he could get John home. And what was this about the military students talking to John _after_ Grand Rounds?

"Thank you both for coming here today," Stamford laughed, "and letting us pick your brain. With that in mind, sir," he nodded to Dr. Something, who thanked Stamford again (why were they thanking so much) before turning to John.

"So, Dr. Watson, I'm just going to conduct this in a Q and A format. Let's start with your past medical history, before any of this started. You were rather healthy before this started, weren't you?"

 _Of course he was._ This oncologist _knew_. Why was he asking?

John went along, unsurprised. "Well, relatively. I had no systemic illness. Don't have any family history of any chronic medical problems—not really. My sister uses alcohol a lot," and Sherlock was surprised by this easy admission, "but otherwise, no. Certainly not cancer. I don't think cancer runs in the family."

"Did you have any risk factors for pancreatic cancer?

"Not that current literature lists. I was never obese. I guess after meeting Sherlock, I ate a lot of takeout, and since residency I've been feeding on the death traps at the cafeterias, but I ate vegetables. I never smoked, and though my sister drank, _I_ did not. Not often, anyway."

"Did you ever have chronic pancreatitis?"

"Nope. Never had acute attacks either."

"Interesting. You never smoked, you were a social drinker, but you never drank enough to have pancreatitis and alcohol itself is not a risk factor."

"Yeah."

"What was your presenting symptom?"

"A PE." John then hesitated. "Well, SOB and acute chest pain, I guess, but it was a PE."

"Unusual!"

"Mmhmm."

From there, the doctor showed John's CT, before drawing the rest of his story out. It was rather dull, actually, nothing Sherlock had not gone over with John before.

The interesting bit came later, when the students were allowed to ask questions, and Sherlock got a dose of what John meant by tactless questions.

"We learned in lecture that the Whipple isn't proven to help much. What made you decide to go through the Whipple?"

"Oof, right in the gut, that one," John laughed, while Stamford just shook his head from where he sat next to Sherlock.

John went on, "Cancer's one of those things. You'll come across these things a lot, as you progress along your career. We've all taken the vows of 'do no harm', but it's tricky because a lot of what we do in medicine _is_ harmful. After several weeks, I'll be starting chemotherapy, and that's _harmful._ There's no way around it. A lot of medicine is therefore about risk versus benefit, or cost versus benefit, as I'm sure the faculty here have impressed on you. There's no right answer for everyone. Everyone has different needs. I have my reasons for undergoing the Whipple, but someone else might choose not to go through it. This is an important point though, and if you walk out of Grand Rounds with nothing else, I want you to take this with you. We all die. The only differences are when and how."

John then started chatting with the oncologist as if they were having tea and the med students were just a convenient group of spectators.

"I remember as a resident, there was this one old chap who was a downright Scrooge; was seventy-something and had been diagnosed with colon cancer. We figured, cut-and-dry, get him a hemi-colectomy or a colectomy and he'd be done, right? Wait, I think it was a colectomy, actually. Right, anyway, it's kind of simple, just cut it out and send him home." John gestured, "Absolutely refused. Why? He was really freaked out by the concept of an ostomy bag. 'I'm not wearing my shit!' he kept saying, and my intern tried to tell him that it's…carrying your excrement in a _bag_ , you know, that just attaches to an opening in your stomach, versus _dying_ , and seventy-something, that's not that old."

"No it's not," the oncologist agreed.

"I mean this fellow could have had a good decade or so, possibly longer, as far as we knew, what with how lifespans are steadily increasing over the last century? People with ostomies almost have it _easier_ than the normal folks because you would _never_ get constipated." This inspired laughter from the audience. "Never. And going to the bathroom takes like five minutes. You just take off, empty…you know? No straining, or anything. But," John shook his head, "Having a hole in his abdomen, and then having to carry it around—you _do_ have to wear it for a while before you go to the bathroom; the bag's basically your rectum, and you'll have to store it for a while, otherwise you'll never leave the bathroom—that was too much for him. He insisted. 'I'm done! I'm done! Now leave me the bloody hell alone!' And he had no next-of-kin. I should have mentioned that first. No family member to convince him otherwise, so we couldn't do anything. He was ready to die." John shrugged. "Good for him. But later that year there was this other lady; what a spunky girl, I still remember her name. She was eighty-two, had eleven children and thirty grandchildren. What a trooper. Same thing: colon cancer, wanted everything done. Her kids were great too. I heard she lived till she was _ninety-four._ "

"Good age."

"Isn't it? Said she had too much still to do. She was _hilarious_. We'd round on her for an extra ten minutes just to listen to her jokes. She had a good support system though. The first patient, he would have had to take care of it—and it's not a big deal once you're use to it, but he needed more encouragement at home, and he didn't have anyone. The latter patient—she could take on _anything_ , because she had eleven children and thirty grandchildren and between the forty of them, someone's going to help her out."

Sherlock smiled, and Mike Stamford slapped a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. He could not help feeling a sense of pride. John chose to go through the Whipple because he trusted Sherlock to be there for him.

It felt even better than a double locked-room murder.


	6. Chapter Five

"Three-oh-two," John announced, wincing as he dabbed his bleeding finger on a cotton pad.

Sherlock was untwisting the lid to the bottle of vitamins and nearly broke the cap. "You've already lost two stone and your glucose still keeps running high."

"It keeps running all over the place," John corrected, "And I'd rather it be high than low. Not likely to get DKA if I check it regularly, but I might die in my sleep if it drops below 40."

John had already woken up once due to hypoglycemia. He had called Sherlock, who quickly fed him some orange juice. That had been a bad night, and John had grimly reminded Sherlock that eventually, his body might be so use to wild sugar levels that there would be no warning.

"Might have to consider a bioimplant," John continued, as he accepted the tablets from Sherlock. "That way I can at least sleep at night. I'll need to look at the research on it though."

"If it's going to save your life—"

"It'll keep me from dying from hypoglycemia, yes," John shook his head as he gagged a little. "Ugh. These vitamins make me feel nauseated."

Since his pancreas was responsible for secreting enzymes that broke down fat, eating fat gave John diarrhea (and, in fact, eating pretty much anything gave John diarrhea), so his absorption of fat-soluble vitamins had been compromised. The enzymes he took by mouth were only of moderate benefit because the stomach acid would denature and deactivate them before they reached the bowel. John was prescribed supplemental vitamins, but since the problem resided in the absorption of these vitamins and not his ingestion of them. all they had managed to do was irritate his digestive tract even further. He was already becoming more prone to bruising, though there was no evidence of frank bleeding yet, and his Vitamin D levels were low despite inhaling tablets full of those things. Sherlock was thoroughly appreciating how lousy it was to have a pancreas that stopped doing its job, and this was not even counting how John was unable to summon the strength to do anything at all.

All the little things behind the scenes that one never thought of until they fall apart.

It was maddening.

"I was thinking," John said to Sherlock as he eyed his toast and peanut butter—the peanut butter was giving him pause because it was heavy in lipids despite being nutritious—"you should probably tell Greg to give you some cases now."

"Who?"

John gave him a look. "Greg. Greg Lestrade?"

"Oh. I could have sworn his name was Gary…"

John rolled his eyes.

Sherlock was already deleting the name. Who the hell cared? "I don't need to put up with boring cases from Lestrade now."

"You've been cooped up here with me for long enough," said the doctor. "There's no reason for both of us to mope around the apartment."

"I'm not moping!"

"You're not doing anything you enjoy. You can't even play your violin because of me."

Of course he could not. He never knew when John needed a nap—and with the poor sleep he had been getting, shallow and barely classifying as a doze, he had taken to sleeping whenever he could keep still at all—which was a poor substitute for a truly good bout of sleep, but better than nothing.

"You need to get out before you go mad," John went on.

Sherlock huffed. "I'm fine."

"Seriously, Sherlock," John leaned back, still not touching his toast or peanut butter, "this isn't good for you, and there's no point in both of us being trapped here. I probably won't be able to help you for a long time. Possibly ever. This isn't something that you can just wait out."

The words made something lodge in Sherlock's throat. _Ever._ Two months ago, he would have scoffed at the thought. Now, he could actually imagine it. John looked _gaunt._ He had always been small; his loose jumpers and open jackets often hid how slender he actually was. Now he seemed frail and decrepit, and with ten years added on to him. His cheekbones stood out, shadowed, and the bones of his wrists jutted over wasting muscle. The cancer was supposed to be gone, but it had made its footprint in his body. John should not weigh so little, and it was small wonder that he had no strength to do much more than walk a little around the flat.

Once, Sherlock hated working with people because they always got in the way. Even Lestrade would often bar his path with processing and procedures and reluctant tolerance. John had a way of making Sherlock more efficient, because he could follow Sherlock's thoughts and clear the way for his quirks. But more than that, he was a steadfast ally, a safe post to which Sherlock could always come to when the world around them became too horrid and cold. Solving crimes, cracking puzzles was glorious and thrilling, but with John by his side, Sherlock could fly further than he could ever reach alone, because John was the rest in between, the shelter when lost and stranded, the healing when hurt. Someone would come for Sherlock if he were ever trapped. Someone would haul him up if he ever fell.

John would not be able to do any of that now. And now Sherlock was reluctant to take off, because while he might have been daring, he was not _stupid_. He knew how many close calls he had. He could never go back to being alone.

He scoffed, before banishing the thoughts, while John's lips turned down into a disapproving frown.

* * *

One morning, John asked Sherlock if he could find Harry for him.

"She hasn't been answering any of my calls. She hasn't posted on the blog either. I just want to make sure she's alright."

Sherlock glanced at the time. "Likely passed out, may be hungover but likely still unconscious at this hour."

"Sherlock," John sighed, "Think of this as a case, alright? I'm just asking you to go over to her flat. I can't make it myself. I mean, I probably can, but I don't necessarily want to confront her in person. I just want to make sure she isn't…dead in a ditch somewhere."

"It's too boring."

"Sherlock!"

_Ugh, fine!_ Sherlock reached for his phone.

_John is asking after Harriet Watson. -SH_

The reply was prompt. _She has found herself the daughter of a wealthy entrepreneur. -MH_

_Bloody tramp._ Sherlock looked up. "She's dating some rich brat. She's fine." _  
_

"… _Mycroft?_ Really? Was he keeping _tabs_ on her?"

"Mycroft's only talent is to spy on everyone."

"But…what do you mean she's dating…"

"'She has found herself the daughter of a wealthy entrepreneur'," Sherlock enunciated. "I'd ask for pictures but I really cannot care less. Good for her, finding someone who can pay for all her drinking." He waved his hand dismissively. "Are we done? Is your blood glucose at least _somewhat_ normal this time?"

John did not answer. He was staring ahead, sightless and blank.

"John."

"Oh." John blinked rapidly. "Ah, um, I haven't checked. Yet."

* * *

Sherlock had yet to reach the limits of his patience, but John barreled past it in the span of one evening to the next. He had managed to maintain relatively good spirits for a while, but some threshold was crossed without warning, and the doctor started being snappish. It started when Sherlock discovered that John had taken to sleeping on the sofa because he was too tired to climb the stairs.

"We should switch rooms," Sherlock offered, since that was the obvious and logical solution to the problem.

"We're not switching rooms," John replied. "I like my room better than yours."

"Why? Mine's bigger."

"I don't like big bedrooms, alright? Not all of us need to live in a mansion to feel good about ourselves."

Sherlock had been rather baffled by this, but his uncertain silence was enough of an argument to snap John out of his odd mood, though not enough for him to agree to switch rooms. "I'm going to decompensate even further," said the doctor. "I'm keeping the upstairs bedroom."

Then came the colleague that had insulted John for being a GP—Dr. Green, his name was. A well-meaning phone call was conducted with failure of normal etiquette as Green joked that John was"not much worse off, considering [he was] not doing much more than measuring blood pressures and referring all his patients to specialists." After the conversation, Sherlock found John in his chair, glaring intently at where bullet holes once were in the wall Sherlock had made with John's Browning.

"It's not what I would have chosen, if I had other options," John explained. "I loved surgery. But that doesn't mean I find general practice shameful somehow. They think general practitioners are the bottom of the class, but what does that mean, anyway? You're so great at taking paper tests. Is that what physicians are about? Multiple choice questions? Sarah sat with me in the ER when I had that pulmonary embolism even though she had patients lined up. The other doctors at the office took on her patients so that she could come in the ambulance with me. What did my surgical colleagues do when I was shot? They never even called. Once I started posting on my blog about detective stories and got famous, oh, that's when they remember that they once had a colleague named John Watson. Sure, you're at the top of the class, but you have the heart of fucking snake. You slither your way to the top and revel in how much better than others you are, when all you were better at was getting high scores on evals and kissing arse. Stalin would have made a brilliant medical doctor, then."

But his mood kept darkening, and he would stare into his tea with a blank, distant stare. It started with him coming downstairs very late in the day; Sherlock knew he had been awake for much longer, but for some reason chose not to get out of bed. Then he turned off his phone, prompting Lestrade and Stamford to call Sherlock instead. When they asked to come to see him, John would turn in to his bedroom for a nap. He could have just been tired, but the timing was too perfect. He stopped reading the medical journal issues, ignoring the mail completely, and he stopped going on his laptop to check his blog.

It all culminated when Molly Hooper showed up with a box of homemade brownies, making Sherlock wonder if at some point she had dissected out her own brain while working in the morgue.

"I know John's probably not going to be able to eat this," she said apologetically, before Sherlock could cut her down to size, "but…I mean, I don't really work with…cancer patients. Except their parts. Or if they're already dead."

Sherlock stared at her and wondered how it was possible for someone who actually cared about the feelings of others to have even less tact than he did.

"So I mean…I don't know if…just in case he can eat these once in a while—"

"No."

"…Oh…" She looked away to search for John sitting at the coffee table, and her eyes took on that glassy look that signaled the coming of tears. "Well…would you like some…Sherlock?"

"Go gain the weight that he's losing," Sherlock snapped, _this_ close to bodily shoving her out of the flat. The thought was abhorrent; Molly Hooper getting as fat as Mycroft while John continued to waste away despite all their attempts. Come to think of it, he was furious at Mycroft too.

Molly's bottom lip quivered. "Oh…" She turned away. "…Okay."

"Molly," John sighed, and his face had a slight green sheen to it, as if he were feeling nauseated, "Look…just…I'm sure Mrs. Hudson would love those brownies."

He rubbed his face when Molly left. "Fuck, I would have let her stay with that box but the smell was making me sick."

"Didn't she also go to medical school?"

"Yeah, but as she sort of mentioned, going to medical school's different from working with someone who has cancer. Or having cancer. Besides, some patients can handle brownies; there were blog posts about marijuana brownies to help with appetite. Just…take it easy on her. She actually cares, unlike certain bloody twats out there."

"She would do us all a favor by caring less."

"Look," John suddenly looked up, "she really doesn't need you to shite on her like this, okay? Heaven fucking knows that even the perfect Sherlock Holmes makes mistakes and occasionally does the opposite of what he intends to do. She wanted to show she cared. So she blundered it, but you know what? I might have done the same, or worse. Far more tactful people have abandoned their loved ones in this situation because they didn't know what to say—Molly could have stayed at Barts instead of coming here and I wouldn't have been able to say a thing. So let it go, alright? Not everyone will get it right all the time, and frankly, I don't give a damn, because at least she's trying, and I _really_ don't have the strength to call her up and apologize for you."

" _I_ was just—"

"You made her cry," John interrupted. "She came to cheer me up and you sent her right back out in tears."

"You were the one who sent her out!"

"Oh my God!" John snapped. "Fine! I sent her out! Then for once in your life, apologize for _me!_ How did I land with such an _idiot?_!"

That stung, because John _meant_ it. The pain of it was a shock, and the indignation roared up almost on reflex.

_Sentiment. See where it gets you?_

"Fine," Sherlock bit back. "Then next time, I won't bother helping you!"

He was already by the park when he realized he had left the flat by himself for the first time in weeks. London was covered in slush, and the wind was cold and moist on his face, but the smell of ice penetrated his sinuses and cleared a fog he did had not even known was clouding his mind.

The anger extinguished in an instant, but he stood staring at the dark pines and the peeling planes, unwilling to go back to the stuffy flat. People were commuting up and down the blocks, and he watched—there was a mother of two, there an Asian graduate student, likely from Singapore, a newly-divorced banker, a tourist from Australia. Some walked briskly, while others ambled along. Sherlock stood as still as a statue, feeling as if he would reel once he moved.

Strange, how he seemed to almost forget that beyond the walls of 221B, there remained the rest of the world, still moving along. It felt like walking through the looking glass and into another realm, another London. It felt wrong, to be here without John; he felt adrift, in the sea of couples falling into and out of love, children growing, seniors dying…

Cases. There were still cases. Murders, thefts, mysteries, cropping up even though he had stopped paying attention.

It was odd, being out without John, but at the same time, it felt familiar. He had never spent so much time with John in one sitting. John had been a constant presence, but in that he was always available, not that he was always nearby, demanding attention. In fact, one of the good things about John was that he never _demanded_ attention, even when he probably should. He was independent, capable, and yet helpful because he chose to be. Before his diagnosis, it was not unusual for Sherlock to go for days without seeing John, either because John had been sleeping over with one of his girlfriends, or Sherlock had been out all night on a case too cumbersome to include John. All told, the time they spent apart from each other far outstripped any time they spent _with_. Hardly surprising that both of them were losing their marbles.

_I needed this._ Sherlock inhaled. John was right; he should not have kept to the flat for as long as he did. _Of course John was right. John is often right, as often about subjects like this as I am about everything else._ He considered buying a smoke, but dismissed it; he did not want to expose John to particulates.

_Should I take cases?_ But the thought of those made his heart clench. Though Sherlock solved a fair number of cases without John, he liked knowing John was close at hand should the situation call for it. Besides, what cases could he take? A seven or an eight could distract Sherlock from taking care of John for days. A six or lower is too boring to contemplate. Besides, did he really want to look at dead bodies when John was so close to being one of them?

But this was nice. Out in the streets of London, there were stories everywhere. Sherlock could look his fill before going home to John. The rest of the world may spin on, and whenever Sherlock got tired of John he could seek refuge a few blocks away. No need for cocaine. No need for Lestrade. No need for Mycroft. Just…a breather. And then he could go back, both of them would have calmed down, and while it would not be like _before_ , it would be a step closer.

By 4:30 in the afternoon, it was dark. Sherlock remained out for another hour before he stepped his way back home over the salted concrete. He had not quite forgotten why he left in the first place, but his temper was quiet and his mood subdued. He was not very worried about what he might find, so seeing Mycroft at the sink was like getting dunked in ice water.

"For crying out loud, what are _you_ doing here?"

"John called. You left your cell phone," Mycroft replied without turning around. He had taken off his coat and had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. _Is_ _he actually washing dishes?_ Sherlock was not sure if he was awake anymore.

"Why did he call _you_?" Sherlock tried to deduce but came up with nothing.

Mycroft finally turned around. He _was_ washing dishes, to Sherlock's complete bafflement. Grabbing a towel, the elder Holmes dabbed his hands and forearms dry before rolling his sleeves back down.

"Had a good walk?" he asked lightly, his face betraying no emotion.

Sherlock did not dignify that with a response. "Where's John?"

Mycroft gestured vaguely. "Freshening up." He looked at the coffee table absentmindedly, and Sherlock followed his gaze. _Huh._ There use to be a box of tissues, but now it was missing.

"How long were you here?"

"Long enough." Mycroft retrieved his coat, which was sitting in… _ugh_ , Sherlock's chair. Clearly John neglected to take Sherlock's seat so Mycroft would not contaminate it with his fat derriere. "Since you are returned, I shall take my leave."

He hung the coat over his arm instead of putting it on, and picked up his umbrella, throughout which he did not look at Sherlock again. Sherlock paused to consider if his brother was actually angry with him too, but no, it seemed like Mycroft was just making a point of getting out of the way as soon as possible. The door slammed shut behind him with no more force than usual. Through the window, Sherlock saw Mycroft cross the street to reach the black car parked at the other curb. Sherlock had completely missed it on his way home.

_Fat git,_ he thought vehemently, aghast at his own performance of late. He did not watch the car pull away.

Sherlock's phone was on the kitchen counter. There was a text message from John.

_I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean to imply that I don't appreciate your help. I'm really sorry. Please come back? -JW_

Well, that actually explained a lot.

_Fuck._

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned. John had left the bathroom. His face was newly washed, but his eyes were still swollen and slightly red. Nothing but time could hide that particular evidence.

_He had been scared. He had texted. He had realized he had no means to reach me. Then he panicked. He called Mycroft. Mycroft came over. He had cried. Mycroft had stayed with him until I came home. Why had he been so frightened? Did he need me for something? Why tears? John is not that type of man. Was he worried I would not come back? He should know I would come back eventually. I would not have left without my phone, at the very least. Plus, this is my flat. If anyone should leave, he—but he has nowhere to go._

It required no thought to go to John and wrap his arms around that frail body, so the planes of their torsos pressed close and he could feel John's heart beat against his chest. John reached to hug him as well, face buried in his shoulder.

"I'm sorry—"

"Shut up," Sherlock squeezed more tightly. "We never apologize to each other. Do not start."

John huffed, half-laugh and half-sob. "I don't feel like myself. I didn't mean—"

"Then don't try to act like yourself." Sherlock cupped the back of his head. "We'll do an experiment. From now on, you start acting like me, and I like you. I make you tea and you steal my laptop. How does that sound?"

John huffed again, this time more laughter. "I can't really play the violin at three in the morning."

"You can try if you want to." Suddenly, Sherlock longed to teach John. He had never heard of anyone mastering the violin if they tried learning after they turned ten, but the point was hardly to make John as good of a violinist as Sherlock. It was something…enjoyable. A way to share something of himself with John. The violin was Sherlock's most prized possession, other than his own brain. It was unique, and learned to adapt to Sherlock's style as much as Sherlock had adapted to its wood and grain. He could exchange his microscope for another, but he would never exchange his violin. Not for something less than a Strad, anyway.

Even a Strad was not good enough, honestly, because it was not _his._

John laughed again. "You wouldn't want to hear me play. It would drive you bonkers. I already drive you bonkers."

"No worse than what I do to you," Sherlock pointed out, but for some reason, John burst into tears.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed, even though Sherlock had _just told him not to say that_. "I'm a lousy flatmate—I—you shouldn't have to—"

He could not finish. Sherlock was utterly lost. Well, fuck. He never anticipated having to deal with a tearful John himself. _What do I do? What do I do what do I do…_

"You're not a lousy flatmate at all," he said, feeling awkward. Was this the right thing to say?

John sniffled violently. He pulled back, and seemed to look for tissues. Thin liquid streamed from his nostrils, more tears than snot. Sherlock glanced at the coffee table, but the box of tissues did not magically reappear.

John drew away from him, and before Sherlock could react, he fled to the bathroom, shutting the door. Sherlock heard the sound of the faucet streaming, and then a long silence interrupted by hiccups.

He stared at the door for a long time. He had no idea what to do.


	7. Chapter Six

After the first, Sherlock counted two more occasions when he heard John crying in his room, and another four when the man's eyes were red-rimmed even though he appeared collected. They had three more fights about utter nonsense: the position of the milk in the fridge, Sherlock using John's laptop without his permission, and caring about the _weather_ , of all things, the latter of which actually sent John into one of the crying fits Sherlock witnessed. Seeing evidence of John weeping made Sherlock want to do the same, for some reason, and he was at a loss as to how to make this all stop and return to some semblance of sanity.

It was Sarah Sawyer who pointed out the obvious.

"He's depressed," she said.

"What?" Sherlock blinked.

"Yeah," she said a bit snootily, though likely because for once, she saw something Sherlock did not. "It's possible to have a physical  _and_ mental illness at the same time."

Sherlock would have put all the pieces together, he told himself. It was just that many things that could be attributed to major depressive disorder could also be attributed to the fact that John had been surgically disemboweled. How exactly was John supposed to enjoy doing all the things he use to love if he use to love chasing down criminals? And how was he expected to have an appetite if he had to adhere to an utterly disgusting diet?

"You don't _know_ that's what's happening with him though," he persisted anyway.

"I'd put him on Zispin, just based on what I'm hearing," Sarah spoke over him, as if he never said anything. "I'd also put you on Zispin, based on what he's told me."

"I'm not depressed."

"I'd still put you on Zispin."

"That's—"

"Seriously, I can't believe I'm saying this—like, okay, I do actually say this sort of thing more often than I'd like, despite this being the twenty-first century and women being in medicine for at least sixty or so years, but I'm a  _doctor._ I see this sort of shite all the time. Granted it's more with folks with Alzheimer's who keep throwing actual shit at the walls and their caretakers know they'll probably have to put up with this for the next _decade_  because if nothing else, we have ECMO, but there tends to be a pattern with these sort of things. _You_ don't see them because you deal with dead bodies and criminals, but I'm a _doctor_. John is fucking depressed, and you're fucking depressed, but at least put  _him_ on Zispin, for Christ's sake."

Sherlock shut his mouth.

"The Whipple doesn't reduce a grown man to tears," she went on. "Hell,  _cancer_ doesn't just reduce you to tears. It's a separate monster on its own."

Whatever that meant.

"Well are you going to write him a prescription?"

"I'll write  _both_ of you a prescription," said Sarah. "You don't have to tell me if you've filled it."

_Ugh._

"I know you could phone the pharmacy to find out."

"But I won't, because this isn't a controlled substance, and I'm not your mummy. I'm not even your doctor," she pointed out. "But you may consider filling it, because John really needs you right now, and he's not going to get better if you're depressed along with him."

"I'm not depressed," Sherlock grumbled.

* * *

John, who was not compliant with his meds when he was first discharged from Afghanistan, took his antidepressants with a docile manner that made Sherlock wonder if the doctor knew this was coming.

"This stuff works wonders," he said to Sherlock. "I've prescribed this to some. Not for those status-post Whipple, but for the right patients, it's amazing." Unlike Sarah, he did not suggest Sherlock take any.

Sherlock did not ask the pharmacist if his own script had been sent.

"Works pretty fast too, compared to SSRIs," John went on.

"How fast does it work?"

"Inside of a week. Have to thank Sarah. It's been a while; should invite her over."

"If you know about this and you've prescribed it before, why didn't you get a script for it sooner?"

John held his mug between his hands after swallowing. "I didn't think of it," he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

"You doctors are idiots," said Sherlock.

* * *

 

It was not magic, this Zispin (Mirtazapine, an 'atypical' antidepressant, and something about 5-HT receptors— _dull_.) There was some improvement in John's appetite, but he was not exactly ravenous or cheery. Still, directly after taking his first dose, he had no more crying episodes, and was actually ingesting something for once. It might have been the placebo effect, Sherlock was certain, but he was not going to ruin it by bringing it up. With better food intake, John's sugars became easier to control, since the sugars tended to go high rather than low, and was easily corrected with insulin. The medicine also seemed to improve John's sleep, so his temper was not as short.

Despite all this, though, he maintained a morose demeanor that left Sherlock feeling drained.

After his revelation, Sherlock took to going out; usually when John was taking his naps. He started feeling reluctant to come home after. The rest of the world seemed so much _better_ than the flat. It had started snowing weeks ago, and London was muddy and covered with sludge, but fairy lights were appearing around the street lamps and people were starting to sell pine trees at the corners of blocks. He felt revitalized, rejuvenated, and somewhat like himself again. Though it made sense for John to take the antidepressant, Sherlock concluded that Sarah was an idiot to conclude that Sherlock needed anything similar. But going back to the flat almost instantly undid all the good going out had done, and after a while, thinking about having to go home started to dampen the effects of heading out in the first place.

What he really needed was a good shot of heroin.

Sense stayed his hand where it never had before. Though Sherlock normally ignored such consequences, in this case he sensed that the fallout could be dire. And the thought of anything happening to John while Sherlock was high was impossible to contemplate.

But he really wanted to escape, for just a little while. It was not even that there were so many problems to handle; John was sleeping, no longer crying, and though Sherlock would still rouse in the middle of the night in heart-thudding panic that the room was quiet upstairs and what if John had a hypoglycemic episode because he had been fasting for the last five hours—( _"Damn it, Sherlock, couldn't this wait another two hours before you prick my finger, you cock")—_ at least during the day, everything was manageable. But Sherlock was…tired. He felt like he had just chased after a suspect on a case, fell on his face, and was now expected to walk all the way home. Even though he could go at a slower pace, he just wanted to take a cab, or at least go to a restaurant to sit for a while with John.

John, who could not accompany him on a case.  _What's the fucking point of having you around? No. That's not what I think._

_John._

But if someone else could take care of the bastard for once. Mrs. Hudson did her due diligence, but she was an old woman, and John would be appalled if she did anything more than make him a cuppa every once in a while, or hot, bland soups. Sherlock was the main caretaker, but he wished he could temporarily get someone else to do this instead. Maybe a few cases would freshen him up. A good eight, or even a seven-and-a-half. Then he could come back to taking care of John, but he would not feel like simply being around the man was sucking the life out of him.

 _There is no one else though. It's not fucking fair._ John was well-liked but there was no one Sherlock would trust with his well-being. Lestrade? Laughable. Molly? After the disaster with the brownies? Maybe Sarah Sawyer, but the GP had her own life to live. The only person who came close was, oddly enough,  _Mycroft_ , but only because his fat git of a brother would hire the best professionals, and none of them would actually care to know John.

Sherlock was all alone.

 _I can do this,_ he told himself.  _If John can do this, I can do this._ Sherlock was, after all, the reason they were even in this situation, and hard as it was to be with John nowadays, it was even harder to imagine life if John were to be absent permanently.

* * *

Two weeks after starting his antidepressant, John looked  _much_ better. Then to spit in the face of all the progress they made, his oncologist brought up chemotherapy at the follow-up appointment a week after that.

"Damn," was John's answer to that, and basically echoed Sherlock's sentiment.

"Traditionally, I use combination therapy with gemcitabine and capecitabine for someone like you, who is relatively healthy otherwise," said Donovan's doppelgänger, "and we'll see how you tolerate it. There are some clinical trials that you are eligible to enroll in, if you wish, and I can give you their packets, but I think we should first see if this combination works for you. Xeloda—capecitabine, is an oral pill that you can take at home, but Gemzar only comes in an IV form, so you're going to need a port placed."

"He just got better," Sherlock exclaimed. "Do we have to do this  _now?_ "

"Oh we don't have to do this  _now_ ," said the oncologist. "Studies show that one can wait for up to twelve weeks after surgery. But it would be good to plan ahead. If you think you just want to get this over with, I think that is completely acceptable. If you wish to defer until after the new year, that is reasonable to me too. But we'll have to add you to the schedule either way for IR to place the port, and then also add you to the list at the infusion center."

"I'd like a week after the New Year," John stated.

"One week?" Dr. Donovan's-twin raised her eyebrows, as if there were a way to decide without picking a date arbitrarily.

"I'd like to spend Christmas away from the loo, and the New Year without thinking that I'd have to get a port placed the next day."

"Fair enough."

"What's the risk in waiting?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, in my experience, and based on what's in the literature, there's no real difference as long as you're in the twelve-week window. For the most part, we try to schedule things based on what's convenient for the patient. Some prefer to start early and others have tasks they need to do and they don't want to risk all the side-effects. Plus, patients need to be strong enough to handle chemo in the first place, and the Whipple can take a lot out of you."

 "I'd like a week after the New Year," John repeated, and then muttered, "or maybe never, if that's possible."

"What is that?" the oncologist blinked.

"Nothing."

Unfortunately, the doctor was much more observant than her police officer counterpart. "This is about what you want, Dr. Watson; not about what the protocols say."

The words she did not say weighed heavily between them. John was silent for a long time. Sherlock held his breath, feeling as if he might suffocate. He waited for someone to break the moment, for John to say something, anything, but John stared at the floor blankly, and eventually she relented.

"I'll have Nancy schedule the appointment for you at the front desk," she said. "You can always cancel and reschedule if it doesn't work out for you. They'll consent you at the center. You are familiar with how this works."

"Yeah."

"If you need anything," she leaned forward, "you have my number, okay? Even if it's just to talk, if you have any concerns at all, call. Here, I'll give you my personal number. Doesn't matter what time of the day it is, if you need to talk—"

"Careful," John teased, "you're sounding like a psychiatrist."

"I've rotated through psychiatry as a med student."

"So did I."

"Then you know they'd never give you their personal phone number," the oncologist smirked.

John let out a laugh, and took her phone number.

* * *

"I thought we already decided," Sherlock accused when they got home.

"What?"

"The chemo," Sherlock clarified, though that was not the whole story.

John, thankfully, seemed to understand.

"Look, I'm just not jumping with eagerness to start, alright? Besides, we made the appointment."

"Which you will show to," Sherlock confirmed.

"Not like I have a choice."

"What is it? What is it? You're getting better. You're eating again."

"I am, I am," John reached out to placate, but he would not meet Sherlock's eyes.

"Stop that," Sherlock gritted his teeth. "What is it?"  _What am I missing?_

"What's the fucking  _point?_ " John suddenly exploded, and then rubbed his face. "I'm sorry. I'm just not looking forward to chemo. Look," he looked up at Sherlock, "if the usual doesn't work, I don't want to enroll in trials."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "You think it wouldn't work?"

"It doesn't always work. Not even for a little bit. It can get pretty heavy."

Whatever that meant.

"Anyway, what I'm saying is, I don't want radiation and I don't want to try another drug. We'll go without chemo if it comes to that but I'm not going to bother enrolling in trials."

"Alright," Sherlock stated numbly. "No trials. Wouldn't want you to be someone's experiment, anyway."

"Lord knows what's in them," John turned away.

"That's it?" Sherlock asked. "You just don't want to enroll in trials."

"I'm drawing a line there," John shuffled to put water on the stove. "We'll deal with it when the time comes. I want a normal Christmas and New Year, yeah?"

* * *

"At  _Mummy's?_ " Sherlock exclaimed in horror.

"Dr. Watson is invited too; don't look so surprised, brother mine," Mycroft drawled, brushing lint off his woolen waistcoat as he settled in John's usual chair. "After all that has happened, you could hardly expect her to forget that."

"What's the point? He's not going to eat anything she makes; not if she's also cooking for  _you_."

"She's been trying some recipes that she thinks the good doctor would appreciate."

"Ta," said John. "I, for one, would love to meet your parents."

"You don't want to meet our parents," Sherlock insisted. "You forget, dear John; Mycroft spawned from their loins."

"Eloquent," Mycroft deadpanned.

"Knowledge is power," John spread his hands out as if talking to a wide audience, "and who am I to turn down any insight into you two lunatics?"

"Says the man who would choose to live with my brother as opposed to…literally anyone else," Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Besides, it sounds quite droll," John went on, "and I, for one, would like a vacation."

"You're mistaken if you think going to Mummy's would qualify as anything of the sort," Sherlock warned.

"An adventure, then, one that does not involve chasing gits down alleys."

"It's settled, then," Mycroft took out his phone. "Will you let her know, or shall I?"

"It's not for another fortnight!" Sherlock exclaimed. "I can still change his mind."

Mycroft gave Sherlock a flat look as he punched his speed-dial.

"Ugh," Sherlock grumbled, "she's going to be insufferable this year."

After Mycroft gave the news, John came to sit down in Sherlock's chair—Sherlock had shifted over to the sofa, glaring at the ceiling for the unfairness of the world.

"By the way," said John, "you wouldn't by any chance have seen my sister lately, have you? On the cameras?"

Sherlock's stomach dropped.

"I do have a job," said Mycroft without missing a beat, "one that does not involve keeping track of people who are of no concern to me."

"I was wondering if you could do me a favour."

It was on the tip of Sherlock's tongue to warn John against asking Mycroft for favours, but if there was anyone besides Sherlock for whom Mycroft might actually do favours, it was John, and even the fat git would hardly try to take advantage of someone like John.

"You want me to look for her," Mycroft remarked.

"She hasn't been calling me. Normally she's impossible to ignore, this time of the year," John folded his hands. "We didn't part on best of terms. I don't even need to hear from her; I just want to make sure she's okay."

"You might consider that she's too preoccupied with herself to call you," Sherlock grumbled.

For some reason this seemed to inspire some kind of moment between Mycroft and John.

"I'll keep you apprised," said Mycroft.

* * *

Lestrade called the following Tuesday, sounding like he did not sleep all week.

 _"This case has been kicking our arses all week,"_ he told Sherlock.

"Lestrade, you know I prefer to text."

_"Yeah, well, you're not answering your texts, so tough, that. Listen, I know you're busy and all, but if you could just take a look at the crime scene photos, that would be a huge help."_

"Whatever it is, you should take it," John called from his armchair.

_When did John learn how to deduce?_

"Ugh, what is it now? Locked room murder? Kidnapped twins? Some kind of gory death by swine?"

_"It's—what? No, wait, I take that one back. I didn't get any sleep. Listen, it's a murder—"_

"Dull. Whoever is already dead. There's no urgency at all. I can catch the killer just as easily tonight or ten years from now."

_"She might be leaving the country."_

"I'll have Mycroft talk to whatever representative that will be."  _Wait a minute._ "She?"

John groaned. "I take that back. If it's Adler, I don't want you involved."

"Don't jump to conclusions, John. Irene Adler's not the only murderess in existence."

"It's probably her if it's bad enough that Lestrade's calling you," John pointed out.

 _Damn it. He's right._ It figured that John would get good at this right when he gets sick. Suddenly, Sherlock was furious.

"Look, just because it's a  _woman_ doesn't mean you people are allowed to be out of your depth. You have that oncologist-look-alike on your team—get her to stop fucking Anderson and do her job for once."

 _"Huh?"_ Lestrade exclaimed.  _"Who, Donovan?"_

Sherlock hung up.

Lestrade was persistent though, and later on rang the doorbell. John shuffled over to the door before Sherlock could intercept.

"Hello Greg," he said cheerily, accepting the folders.

Lestrade did a double-take, but returned without missing a beat, "John. Really appreciate this."

"About time, honestly," said John. "The telly's been worse than usual. Want to come in and sit down for a while?"

"Eh, I'll pass. Have to get back to the office. Text me?"

"Will do."

Lestrade left, pulling the door closed as he did so. John opened the folder as he turned around, making faces at whatever he saw.

"John," Sherlock exclaimed, looking betrayed.

"I'm bored," John replied. "Come on. It's just a bunch of photos. Come help me out with this."

A child, he saw. The victim was a child. Sherlock should have known, given John's feelings towards children. The photos showed a boy, no older than twelve, fair skin with black hair and long dark eyelashes curling over his cheek as he lied in repose. No signs of trauma, at least from the first photo. Name: Jacob Merker; father was a finance associate. Mother was a homemaker. They had three other children, one of whom was still missing. Jacob liked sports, most likely football, judging from his sneakers.

"They're going to start flooding the emails with requests if they catch wind of this," he drawled.

"Greg's hardly going to tell anyone."

Sherlock paused for a moment. "You think New Scotland Yard is actually capable of keeping secrets?"

"Not everyone goes around hacking phones like you, Sherlock. Most people have a life."

Sherlock blinked. "You think criminals have a life?"

John looked up, then laughed. " _Touché_. We're still doing this though."

"Ugh," Sherlock groaned.

_Touché._

* * *

Beyond the photographs and lab reports that indicated the boy had died of carbon monoxide poisoning, there was nothing favouring any particular suspect over another, leading to Sherlock musing on his violin while John took a break on the long couch.

He had not touched his violin in a while. Sherlock had been hesitant to try. He was not sure why, but something about playing the instrument repelled him now. It seemed too much, like shouting in one's ear, or shining lights directly in one's face. Where once he would channel all his frustration and fear through the bow and strings, now it seemed difficult to even summon the energy to pick it up. Melodies use to flow from his fingers like water through a sieve, but he stood at the window drawing long notes, lacking all inspiration for any kind of meaningful tune, or even the atonal chords he would play to reflect the chaos in his mind.

After about fifteen minutes, he quit. John looked at him in curiosity as he put the instrument away. He did not say anything, though Sherlock could feel the weight of his regard. Sherlock avoided his gaze, in case John would consider something inane as  _talking_ , but when he did happen to glance at the man, the doctor seemed more thoughtful than anything.

 _Stop thinking,_ Sherlock wanted to say.  _You'll hurt your brain._ But the quip would not come forth.

In the end, John remained silent. In fact, they spoke no more for the rest of the evening. John remained reclining on the couch while Sherlock bent over the photographs, for once having nothing to offer Lestrade. The detective inspector sent a few texts, which Sherlock ignored.

The truth was, they both knew that the second child was already dead. They were out of time when they began, and had all the time in the world to figure the rest out. 

* * *

_30-2-2012 18:03_

_Finished work early today, and Sherlock is without a case. He's moping around like the brattiest brat that ever bratted. Of course, I have to be careful writing this as one never knows what the great Sherlock Holmes would do when he is feeling melodramatic. I told him that I was writing about the money-laundering case, so hopefully he wouldn't be interested to see what I'm typing._

_I had an interesting patient today that really disturbed me somewhat. He was 90 years old and fought in WWII. He actually does not have the conditions most people over 65 tend to have; no high blood pressure, no diabetes, his cholesterol was exquisite, but he was involved in a car accident eighteen years ago and had both legs amputated. Somehow, he survived that. Since then he's been on gabapentin and tramadol, which controls the pain "adequately". About a year ago, he started losing vision in both eyes; the ophthalmologists do not know what caused this, and they've ordered a barrage of tests that have yielded no answers. At this point, he's not quite right in the head anymore; he tends to perseverate on subjects regardless of whether they are relevant, and does not seem to understand what I say if it goes against his initial impressions. He is also going deaf; at 90 years old it is frankly amazing he does not have dementia, but while he does seem to have good memory, I feel that it is not far off. On my end, there is not much for me to do; his health is otherwise pristine, and I can do nothing for his eyes that the ophthalmologists have not tried. He has another appointment with a neuro-ophthalmologist in two months; I will chart-check then to see what they find._

_Quite something, to have survived something like WWII only for your story to end this way: blind, deaf, unable to walk, always somewhat in pain._ _It says a lot about his strength of spirit, but at the same time, it seems quite dreadful, to come home miraculously intact from war, only for peaceful times to rip away pieces of you: a leg here, an eye there. It seems no road in life allows us to leave the world as we had come. Alas, perhaps that is the price for entering this world that we all must pay._

_I wonder if mine is yet to be exacted._

* * *

_She is well. -MH_

Nothing else, fortunately. And equally fortunate was John's unquestioning nature.

_Thanks. Owe you one. -JW_

_My pleasure. -MH_

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  _Sentiment,_ he thought, but unhappily noted that he should probably buy his brother something for Christmas as thanks for allaying John without revealing what a little shrew his filthy excuse of a sister was. 

 _Maybe a big hat for his fat head,_ he thought.  _Or a cat, like that Bond villian. A white one with heterochromia. Stuffed, because he can't be trusted with a live one. Or maybe…_


End file.
